UC-NRLF 


B    3    flbM    flflS 


/iilKELEY\ 

LIBRARY 

1     UNIVERSITY  Of    1 
V^CAUIFOtWA/ 

UNDERGRAD. 
LIBRARY 


BY  EDITH  WHARTON 


A  SON  AT  THE  FRONT 

THE  GREATER  INCLINATION 

THE  TOUCHSTONE 

CRUCIAL  INSTANCES 

THE  VALLEY  OF  DECISION 

SANCTUARY 

THE  DESCENT  OF  MAN 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MIRTH 

THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  TREE 

THE  HERMIT  AND  THE  WILD  WOMAN 

TALES  OF  MEN  AND  GHOSTS 

ETHAN  FROME 

THE  CUSTOM  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

XINGU       

THE  WRITING  OF  FICTION 


IN  MOROCCO 

FIGHTING  FRANCE 

ITALIAN  BACKGROUNDS 

A  MOTOR  FLIGHT  THROUGH  FRANCE 

ARTEMIS  TO  ACTION 

THE  DECORATION  OF  HOUSES 

CHARLES  SCRIBNEKS  SONS 


CRUCIAL     INSTANCES 


CRUCIAL   INSTANCES 

BY 
EDITH  WHARTON 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

MCMXXVII 


COPYRIGHT,  1901,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS 

UNDERGRAD. 
I  LIBRARY 

The  Duchess  at  Prayer  1 

II 

The  Angel  at  the  Grave  35 

III 

The  Recovery  fig 

IV 

"Copy":  A  Dialogue  99 


The  Rembrandt 

VI 

The  Moving  Finger 

VII 

The  Confessional 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 


THE     DUCHESS    AT    PRAYER 

HAVE  you  ever  questioned  the  long  shuttered 
front  of  an  old  Italian  house,  that  motionless 
mask,  smooth,  mute,  equivocal  as  the  face  of 
a  priest  behind  which  buzz  the  secrets  of  the  confes 
sional  ?  Other  houses  declare  the  activities  they  shelter ; 
they  are  the  clear  expressive  cuticle  of  a  life  flowing 
close  to  the  surface;  but  the  old  palace  in  its  narrow 
street,  the  villa  on  its  cypress-hooded  hill,  are  as  im 
penetrable  as  death.  The  tall  windows  are  like  blind 
eyes,  the  great  door  is  a  shut  mouth.  Inside  there  may 
be  sunshine,  the  scent  of  myrtles,  and  a  pulse  of  life 
through  all  the  arteries  of  the  huge  frame ;  or  a  mortal 
solitude,  where  bats  lodge  in  the  disjointed  stones  and 
the  keys  rust  in  unused  doors.  .  . 

II 

FROM  the  loggia,  with  its  vanishing  frescoes,  I 
looked  down  an  avenue  barred  by  a  ladder  of  cy 
press-shadows  to  the  ducal  escutcheon  and  mutilated 
vases  of  the  gate.  Flat  noon  lay  on  the  gardens,  on 
fountains,  porticoes  and  grottoes.  Below  the  terrace, 
where  a  chrome-colored  lichen  had  sheeted  the  balus 
trade  as  with  fine  laminae  of  gold,  vineyards  stooped  to 
the  rich  valley  clasped  in  hills.  The  lower  slopes  were 


THE    DUCHESS    AT    PRAYER 

strewn  with  white  villages  like  stars  spangling  a  sum 
mer  dusk;  and  beyond  these,  fold  on  fold  of  blue 
mountain,  clear  as  gauze  against  the  sky.  The  August 
air  was  lifeless,  but  it  seemed  light  and  vivifying  after 
the  atmosphere  of  the  shrouded  rooms  through  which 
I  had  been  led.  Their  chill  was  on  me  and  I  hugged 
the  sunshine. 

"The  Duchess's  apartments  are  beyond,"  said  the 
old  man. 

He  was  the  oldest  man  I  had  ever  seen;  so  sucked 
back  into  the  past  that  he  seemed  more  like  a  memory 
than  a  living  being.  The  one  trait  linking  him  with  the 
actual  was  the  fixity  with  which  his  small  saurian  eye 
held  the  pocket  that,  as  I  entered,  had  yielded  a  lira 
to  the  gate-keeper's  child.  He  went  on,  without  remov 
ing  his  eye : 

"For  two  hundred  years  nothing  has  been  changed 
in  the  apartments  of  the  Duchess." 

"And  no  one  lives  here  now?" 

"No  one,  sir.  The  Duke  goes  to  Como  for  the  sum 
mer  season." 

I  had  moved  to  the  other  end  of  the  loggia.  Below 
me,  through  hanging  groves,  white  roofs  and  domes 
flashed  like  a  smile. 

"And  that's  Vicenza?" 

"Proprio!"  The  old  man  extended  fingers  as  lean  as 
the  hands  fading  from  the  walls  behind  us.  "You  see 

[*] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

the  palace  roof  over  there,  just  to  the  left  of  the  Ba 
silica?  The  one  with  the  row  of  statues  like  birds  tak 
ing  flight?  That's  the  Duke's  town  palace,  built  by 
Palladio." 

"And  does  the  Duke  come  there?" 

"Never.  In  winter  he  goes  to  Rome." 

"And  the  palace  and  the  villa  are  always  closed?" 

"As  you  see — always." 

"How  long  has  this  been?" 

"Since  I  can  remember." 

I  looked  into  his  eyes :  they  were  like  tarnished  metal 
mirrors  reflecting  nothing.  "That  must  be  a  long  time," 
I  said  involuntarily. 

"A  long  time,"  he  assented. 

I  looked  down  on  the  gardens.  An  opulence  of  dah 
lias  overran  the  box-borders,  between  cypresses  that  cut 
the  sunshine  like  basalt  shafts.  Bees  hung  above  the 
lavender;  lizards  sunned  themselves  on  the  benches  and 
slipped  through  the  cracks  of  the  dry  basins.  Every 
where  were  vanishing  traces  of  that  fantastic  horticul 
ture  of  which  our  dull  age  has  lost  the  art.  Down  the 
alleys  maimed  statues  stretched  their  arms  like  rows 
of  whining  beggars;  faun-eared  terms  grinned  in  the 
thickets,  and  above  the  laurustinus  walls  rose  the  mock 
ruin  of  a  temple,  falling  into  real  ruin  in  the  bright 
disintegrating  air.  The  glare  was  blinding. 

"Let  us  go  in,"  I  said. 

[3  ] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

The   old   man   pushed   open  a  heavy  door,  behind 
which  the  cold  lurked  like  a  knife. 
"The  Duchess's  apartments/'  he  said. 
Overhead  and  around  us  the  same  evanescent  frescoes, 
under  foot  the  same  scagliola  volutes,  unrolled  themselves 
interminably.  Ebony  cabinets,  with  inlay  of  precious  mar 
bles  in  cunning  perspective,  alternated  down  the  room 
with  the  tarnished  efflorescence  of  gilt  consoles  support 
ing  Chinese  monsters;  and  from  the  chimney-panel  a 
gentleman  in  the  Spanish  habit  haughtily  ignored  us. 

"Duke  Ercole  II.."  the  old  man  explained,  "by  the 
Genoese  Priest." 

It  was  a  narrow-browed  face,  sallow  as  a  wax  effigy, 
high-nosed  and  cautious-lidded,  as  though  modelled  by 
priestly  hands;  the  lips  weak  and  vain  rather  than 
cruel;  a  quibbling  mouth  that  would  have  snapped  at 
verbal  errors  like  a  lizard  catching  flies,  but  had  never 
learned  the  shape  of  a  round  yes  or  no.  One  of  the 
Duke's  hands  rested  on  the  head  of  a  dwarf,  a  simian 
creature  with  pearl  ear-rings  and  fantastic  dress;  the 
other  turned  the  pages  of  a  folio  propped  on  a  skull. 
"Beyond  is  the  Duchess's  bedroom,"  the  old  man 
reminded  me. 

Here  the  shutters  admitted  but  two  narrow  shafts  of 
light,  gold  bars  deepening  the  subaqueous  gloom.  On  a 
dais  the  bedstead,  grim,  nuptial,  official,  lifted  its  bal 
dachin;  a  yellow  Christ  agonized  between  the  curtains, 
[4] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

and  across  the  room  a  lady  smiled  at  us  from  the  chim 
ney-breast. 

The  old  man  unbarred  a  shutter  and  the  light  touched 
her  face.  Such  a  face  it  was,  with  a  flicker  of  laughter 
over  it  like  the  wind  on  a  June  meadow,  and  a  singular 
tender  pliancy  of  mien,  as  though  one  of  Tiepolo's  len 
ient  goddesses  had  been  busked  into  the  stiff  sheath  of 
a  seventeenth  century  dress ! 

"No  one  has  slept  here,"  said  the  old  man,  "since 
the  Duchess  Violante." 
"And  she  was — ?" 

"The  lady  there— first  Duchess  of  Duke  Ercole  II." 
He  drew  a  key  from  his  pocket  and  unlocked  a  door 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room.  "The  chapel,"  he  said. 
"This  is  the  Duchess's  balcony."  As  I  turned  to  follow 
him  the  Duchess  tossed  me  a  sidelong  smile. 

I  stepped  into  a  grated  tribune  above  a  chapel  fes 
tooned  with  stucco.  Pictures  of  bituminous  saints  moul 
dered  between  the  pilasters;  the  artificial  roses  in  the 
altar-vases  were  gray  with  dust  and  age,  and  under  the 
cobwebby  rosettes  of  the  vaulting  a  bird's  nest  clung. 
Before  the  altar  stood  a  row  of  tattered  arm-chairs,  and 
I  drew  back  at  sight  of  a  figure  kneeling  near  them. 
"The  Duchess,"  the  old  man  whispered.  "By  the 
Cavaliere  Bernini." 

It  was  the  image  of  a  woman  in  furred  robes  and 
spreading  fraise,  her  hand  lifted,  her  face  addressed  to 
[5] 


THE    DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

the  tabernacle.  There  was  a  strangeness  in  the  sight  of 
that  immovable  presence  locked  in  prayer  before  an 
abandoned  shrine.  Her  face  was  hidden,  and  I  won 
dered  whether  it  were  grief  or  gratitude  that  raised 
her  hands  and  drew  her  eyes  to  the  altar,  where  no 
living  prayer  joined  her  marble  invocation.  I  followed 
my  guide  down  the  tribune  steps,  impatient  to  see 
what  mystic  version  of  such  terrestrial  graces  the  in 
genious  artist  had  found — the  Cavaliere  was  master  of 
such  arts.  The  Duchess's  attitude  was  one  of  transport, 
as  though  heavenly  airs  fluttered  her  laces  and  the 
love-locks  escaping  from  her  coif.  I  saw  how  admirably 
the  sculptor  had  caught  the  poise  of  her  head,  the 
tender  slope  of  the  shoulder;  then  I  crossed  over  and 
looked  into  her  face — it  was  a  frozen  horror.  Never 
have  hate,  revolt  and  agony  so  possessed  a  human 
countenance.  .  . 

The  old  man  crossed  himself  and  shuffled  his  feet  on 
the  marble. 

"The  Duchess  Violante,"  he  repeated. 

"The  same  as  in  the  picture?" 

"Eh— the  same." 

"But  the  face — what  does  it  mean?" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  deaf  eyes  on 
me.  Then  he  shot  a  glance  round  the  sepulchral  place, 
clutched  my  sleeve  and  said,  close  to  my  ear:  "It  was 
not  always  so." 

[6] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

"What  was  not?" 

"The  face — so  terrible." 

"The  Duchess's  face?" 

"The  statue's.   It  changed  after—" 

"After?" 

"It  was  put  here." 

"The  statue's  face  changed—?" 

He  mistook  my  bewilderment  for  incredulity  and  his 
confidential  finger  dropped  from  my  sleeve.  "Eh,  that's 
the  story.  I  tell  what  I've  heard.  What  do  I  know?" 
He  resumed  his  senile  shuffle  across  the  marble.  "This 
is  a  bad  place  to  stay  in — no  one  comes  here.  It's  too 
cold.  But  the  gentleman  said,  /  must  see  everything!" 

I  let  the  lire  sound.  "So  I  must — and  hear  every 
thing.  This  story,  now — from  whom  did  you  have  it?" 

His  hand  stole  back.  "One  that  saw  it,  by  God!" 

"That  saw  it?" 

"My  grandmother,  then.   I'm  a  very  old  man." 

"Your  grandmother?  Your  grandmother  was — ?" 

"The  Duchess's  serving  girl,  with  respect  to  you." 

"Your  grandmother?  Two  hundred  years  ago?" 

"Is  it  too  long  ago?  That's  as  God  pleases.  I  am  a 
very  old  man  and  she  was  a  very  old  woman  when  I 
was  born.  When  she  died  she  was  as  black  as  a  miracu 
lous  Virgin  and  her  breath  whistled  like  the  wind  in  a 
keyhole.  She  told  me  the  story  when  I  was  a  little  boy. 
She  told  it  to  me  out  there  in  the  garden,  on  a  bench 
[7] 


THE     DUCHESS    AT    PRAYER 

by  the  fish-pond,  one  summer  night  of  the  year  she 
died.  It  must  be  true,  for  I  can  show  you  the  very  bench 
we  sat  on.  .  ." 

Ill 

NOON  lay  heavier  on  the  gardens;  not  our  live 
humming  warmth  but  the  stale  exhalation  of 
dead  summers.  The  very  statues  seemed  to  drowse  like 
watchers  by  a  death-bed.  Lizards  shot  out  of  the 
cracked  soil  like  flames  and  the  bench  in  the  laurusti- 
nus-niche  was  strewn  with  the  blue  varnished  bodies  of 
dead  flies.  Before  us  lay  the  fish-pond,  a  yellow  marble 
slab  above  rotting  secrets.  The  villa  looked  across  it, 
composed  as  a  dead  face,  with  the  cypresses  flanking  it 
for  candles.  . 


IV 


"T  IMPOSSIBLE,  you  say,  that  my  mother's  mother 
JJL  should  have  been  the  Duchess's  maid?  What  do  I 
know?  It  is  so  long  since  anything  has  happened  here 
that  the  old  things  seem  nearer,  perhaps,  than  to 
those  who  live  in  cities.  .  .  But  how  else  did  she 
know  about  the  statue  then?  Answer  me  that,  sir! 
That  she  saw  with  her  eyes,  I  can  swear  to,  and 
never  smiled  again,  so  she  told  me,  till  they  put  her 
first  child  in  her  arms  ...  for  she  was  taken  to  wife 
[8] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

by  the  steward's  son,  Antonio,  the  same  who  had  car 
ried  the  letters.  .  .  But  where  am  I?  Ah,  well  .  .  . 
she  was  a  mere  slip,  you  understand,  my  grandmother, 
when  the  Duchess  died,  a  niece  of  the  upper  maid, 
Nencia,  and  suffered  about  the  Duchess  because  of 
her  pranks  and  the  funny  songs  she  knew.  It 's  pos 
sible,  you  think,  she  may  have  heard  from  others  what 
she  afterward  fancied  she  had  seen  herself?  How  that 
is,  it's  not  for  an  unlettered  man  to  say;  though  in 
deed  I  myself  seem  to  have  seen  many  of  the  things 
she  told  me.  This  is  a  strange  place.  No  one  comes 
here,  nothing  changes,  and  the  old  memories  stand  up 
as  distinct  as  the  statues  in  the  garden.  .  . 

"It  began  the  summer  after  they  came  back  from 
the  Brenta.  Duke  Ercole  had  married  the  lady  from 
Venice,  you  must  know;  it  was  a  gay  city,  then,  I'm 
told,  with  laughter  and  music  on  the  water,  and  the 
days  slipped  by  like  boats  running  with  the  tide.  Well, 
to  humor  her  he  took  her  back  the  first  autumn  to  the 
Brenta.  Her  father,  it  appears,  had  a  grand  palace 
there,  with  such  gardens,  bowling-alleys,  grottoes  and 
casinos  as  never  were;  gondolas  bobbing  at  the  water- 
gates,  a  stable  full  of  gilt  coaches,  a  theatre  full  of 
players,  and  kitchens  and  offices  full  of  cooks  and 
lackeys  to  serve  up  chocolate  all  day  long  to  the  fine 
ladies  in  masks  and  furbelows,  with  their  pet  dogs  and 
their  blackamoors  and  their  abates.  Eh!  I  know  it  all 

C9] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

as  if  I  'd  been  there,  for  Nencia,  you  see,  my  grand 
mother's  aunt,  travelled  with  the  Duchess,  and  came 
back  with  her  eyes  round  as  platters,  and  not  a  word 
to  say  for  the  rest  of  the  year  to  any  of  the  lads  who  'd 
courted  her  here  in  Vicenza. 

"What  happened  there  I  don't  know — my  grand 
mother  could  never  get  at  the  rights  of  it,  for  Nencia 
was  mute  as  a  fish  where  her  lady  was  concerned — but 
when  they  came  back  to  Vicenza  the  Duke  ordered 
the  villa  set  in  order;  and  in  the  spring  he  brought  the 
Duchess  here  and  left  her.  She  looked  happy  enough, 
my  grandmother  said,  and  seemed  no  object  for  pity. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  better  than  being  shut  up  in 
Vicenza,  in  the  tall  painted  rooms  where  priests  came 
and  went  as  softly  as  cats  prowling  for  birds,  and  the 
Duke  was  forever  closeted  in  his  library,  talking  with 
learned  men.  The  Duke  was  a  scholar;  you  noticed  he 
was  painted  with  a  book?  Well,  those  that  can  read 
'em  make  out  that  they're  full  of  wonderful  things;  as 
a  man  that's  been  to  a  fair  across  the  mountains  will 
always  tell  his  people  at  home  it  was  beyond  anything 
they'll  ever  see.  As  for  the  Duchess,  she  was  all  for 
music,  play-acting  and  young  company.  The  Duke  was 
a  silent  man,  stepping  quietly,  with  his  eyes  down,  as 
though  he'd  just  come  from  confession;  when  the 
Duchess's  lap-dog  yapped  at  his  heels  he  danced  like 
a  man  in  a  swarm  of  hornets;  when  the  Duchess 
[10] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

laughed  he  winced  as  if  you  'd  drawn  a  diamond  across 
a  window-pane.  And  the  Duchess  was  always  laughing. 

"When  she  first  came  to  the  villa  she  was  very  busy 
laying  out  the  gardens,  designing  grottoes,  planting 
groves  and  planning  all  manner  of  agreeable  surprises 
in  the  way  of  water-jets  that  drenched  you  unexpect 
edly,  and  hermits  in  caves,  and  wild  men  that  jumped 
at  you  out  of  thickets.  She  had  a  very  pretty  taste  in 
such  matters,  but  after  a  while  she  tired  of  it,  and  there 
being  no  one  for  her  to  talk  to  but  her  maids  and  the 
chaplain — a  clumsy  man  deep  in  his  books — why,  she 
would  have  strolling  players  out  from  Vicenza,  moun 
tebanks  and  fortune-tellers  from  the  market-place, 
travelling  doctors  and  astrologers,  and  all  manner  of 
trained  animals.  Still  it  could  be  seen  that  the  poor 
lady  pined  for  company,  and  her  waiting  women,  who 
loved  her,  were  glad  when  the  Cavaliere  Ascanio,  the 
Duke's  cousin,  came  to  live  at  the  vineyard  across 
the  valley — you  see  the  pinkish  house  over  there  in 
the  mulberries,  with  a  red  roof  and  a  pigeon-cote? 

"The  Cavaliere  Ascanio  was  a  cadet  of  one  of  the 
great  Venetian  houses,  pezzi  grossi  of  the  Golden  Book. 
He  had  been  meant  for  the  Church,  I  believe,  but 
what!  he  set  fighting  above  praying  and  cast  in  his 
lot  with  the  captain  of  the  Duke  of  Mantua's  bravi, 
himself  a  Venetian  of  good  standing,  but  a  little  at 
odds  with  the  law.  Well,  the  next  I  know,  the  Cava- 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

Here  was  in  Venice  again,  perhaps  not  in  good  odor  on 
account  of  his  connection  with  the  gentleman  I  speak 
of.  Some  say  he  tried  to  carry  off  a  nun  from  the  con 
vent  of  Santa  Croce;  how  that  may  be  I  can't  say;  but 
my  grandmother  declared  he  had  enemies  there,  and 
the  end  of  it  was  that  on  some  pretext  or  other  the 
Ten  banished  him  to  Vicenza.  There,  of  course,  the 
Duke,  being  his  kinsman,  had  to  show  him  a  civil  face; 
and  that  was  how  he  first  came  to  the  villa. 

"He  was  a  fine  young  man,  beautiful  as  a  Saint 
Sebastian,  a  rare  musician,  who  sang  his  own  songs  to 
the  lute  in  a  way  that  used  to  make  my  grandmother's 
heart  melt  and  run  through  her  body  like  mulled  wine. 
He  had  a  good  word  for  everybody,  too,  and  was  always 
dressed  in  the  French  fashion,  and  smelt  as  sweet  as  a 
bean-field;  and  every  soul  about  the  place  welcomed 
the  sight  of  him. 

"Well,  the  Duchess,  it  seemed,  welcomed  it  too; 
youth  will  have  youth,  and  laughter  turns  to  laughter; 
and  the  two  matched  each  other  like  the  candlesticks 
on  an  altar.  The  Duchess — you've  seen  her  portrait — 
but  to  hear  my  grandmother,  sir,  it  no  more  approached 
her  than  a  weed  comes  up  to  a  rose.  The  Cavaliere,  in 
deed,  as  became  a  poet,  paragoned  her  in  his  song  to 
all  the  pagan  goddesses  of  antiquity;  and  doubtless 
these  were  finer  to  look  at  than  mere  women;  but  so, 
it  seemed,  was  she;  for,  to  believe  my  grandmother, 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

she  made  other  women  look  no  more  than  the  big 
French  fashion-doll  that  used  to  be  shown  on  Ascen 
sion  days  in  the  Piazza.  She  was  one,  at  any  rate,  that 
needed  no  outlandish  finery  to  beautify  her;  whatever 
dress  she  wore  became  her  as  feathers  fit  the  bird;  and 
her  hair  did  n't  get  its  color  by  bleaching  on  the  house 
top.  It  glittered  of  itself  like  the  threads  in  an  Easter 
chasuble,  and  her  skin  was  whiter  than  fine  wheaten 
bread  and  her  mouth  as  sweet  as  a  ripe  fig.  .  . 

"Well,  sir,  you  could  no  more  keep  them  apart  than 
the  bees  and  the  lavender.  They  were  always  together, 
singing,  bowling,  playing  cup  and  ball,  walking  in  the 
gardens,  visiting  the  aviaries  and  petting  her  grace's 
trick-dogs  and  monkeys.  The  Duchess  was  as  gay  as  a 
foal,  always  playing  pranks  and  laughing,  tricking  out 
her  animals  like  comedians,  disguising  herself  as  a 
peasant  or  a  nun  (you  should  have  seen  her  one  day 
pass  herself  off  to  the  chaplain  as  a  mendicant  sister), 
or  teaching  the  lads  and  girls  of  the  vineyards  to  dance 
and  sing  madrigals  together.  The  Cavaliere  had  a  sin 
gular  ingenuity  in  planning  such  entertainments  and 
the  days  were  hardly  long  enough  for  their  diversions. 
But  toward  the  end  of  the  summer  the  Duchess  fell 
quiet  and  would  hear  only  sad  music,  and  the  two  sat 
much  together  in  the  gazebo  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 
It  was  there  the  Duke  found  them  one  day  when  he 
drove  out  from  Vicenza  in  his  gilt  coach.  He  came  but 
[13] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

once  or  twice  a  year  to  the  villa,  and  it  was,  as  my 
grandmother  said,  just  a  part  of  her  poor  lady's  ill- 
luck  to  be  wearing  that  day  the  Venetian  habit,  which 
uncovered  the  shoulders  in  a  way  the  Duke  always 
scowled  at,  and  her  curls  loose  and  powdered  with  gold. 
Well,  the  three  drank  chocolate  in  the  gazebo,  and 
what  happened  no  one  knew,  except  that  the  Duke, 
on  taking  leave,  gave  his  cousin  a  seat  in  his  carriage; 
but  the  Cavaliere  never  returned. 

"Winter  approaching,  and  the  poor  lady  thus  finding 
herself  once  more  alone,  it  was  surmised  among  her 
women  that  she  must  fall  into  a  deeper  depression  of 
spirits.  But  far  from  this  being  the  case,  she  displayed 
such  cheerfulness  and  equanimity  of  humor  that  my 
grandmother,  for  one,  was  half-vexed  with  her  for  giv 
ing  no  more  thought  to  the  poor  young  man  who,  all 
this  time,  was  eating  his  heart  out  in  the  house  across 
the  valley.  It  is  true  she  quitted  her  gold-laced  gowns 
and  wore  a  veil  over  her  head;  but  Nencia  would  have 
it  she  looked  the  lovelier  for  the  change  and  so  gave 
the  Duke  greater  displeasure.  Certain  it  is  that  the 
Duke  drove  out  oftener  to  the  villa,  and  though  he 
found  his  lady  always  engaged  in  some  innocent  pur 
suit,  such  as  embroidery  or  music,  or  playing  games 
with  her  young  women,  yet  he  always  went  away  with 
a  sour  look  and  a  whispered  word  to  the  chaplain.  Now 
as  to  the  chaplain,  my  grandmother  owned  there  had 
[14] 


THE    DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

been  a  time  when  her  grace  had  not  handled  him  over- 
wisely.  For,  according  to  Nencia,  it  seems  that  his  rev 
erence,  who  seldom  approached  the  Duchess,  being 
buried  in  his  library  like  a  mouse  in  a  cheese — well, 
one  day  he  made  bold  to  appeal  to  her  for  a  sum  of 
money,  a  large  sum,  Nencia  said,  to  buy  certain  tall 
books,  a  chest  full  of  them,  that  a  foreign  pedlar  had 
brought  him;  whereupon  the  Duchess,  who  could  never 
abide  a  book,  breaks  out  at  him  with  a  laugh  and  a 
flash  of  her  old  spirit — 'Holy  Mother  of  God,  must  I 
have  more  books  about  me?  I  was  nearly  smothered 
with  them  in  the  first  year  of  my  marriage;'  and  the 
chaplain  turning  red  at  the  affront,  she  added:  'You 
may  buy  them  and  welcome,  my  good  chaplain,  if  you 
can  find  the  money;  but  as  for  me,  I  am  yet  seeking  a 
way  to  pay  for  my  turquoise  necklace,  and  the  statue 
of  Daphne  at  the  end  of  the  bowling-green,  and  the 
Indian  parrot  that  my  black  boy  brought  me  last 
Michaelmas  from  the  Bohemians — so  you  see  I've  no 
money  to  waste  on  trifles;'  and  as  he  backs  out  awk 
wardly  she  tosses  at  him  over  her  shoulder:  'You 
should  pray  to  Saint  Blandina  to  open  the  Duke's 
pocket!'  to  which  he  returned,  very  quietly,  'Your 
excellency's  suggestion  is  an  admirable  one,  and  I  have 
already  entreated  that  blessed  martyr  to  open  the 
Duke's  understanding.' 

"Thereat,  Nencia  said  (who  was  standing  by),  the 
[  15] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

Duchess  flushed  wonderfully  red  and  waved  him  out  of 
the  room;  and  then  ' Quick!'  she  cried  to  my  grand 
mother  (who  was  too  glad  to  run  on  such  errands), 
'Call  me  Antonio,  the  gardener's  boy,  to  the  box-gar 
den  ;  I  've  a  word  to  say  to  him  about  the  new  clove- 
carnations.  .  .' 

"Now  I  may  not  have  told  you,  sir,  that  in  the  crypt 
under  the  chapel  there  has  stood,  for  more  generations 
than  a  man  can  count,  a  stone  coffin  containing  a  thigh 
bone  of  the  blessed  Saint  Blandina  of  Lyons,  a  relic 
offered,  I  've  been  told,  by  some  great  Duke  of  France 
to  one  of  our  own  dukes  when  they  fought  the  Turk 
together;  and  the  object,  ever  since,  of  particular  ven 
eration  in  this  illustrious  family.  Now,  since  the  Duch 
ess  had  been  left  to  herself,  it  was  observed  she  affected 
a  fervent  devotion  to  this  relic,  praying  often  in  the 
chapel  and  even  causing  the  stone  slab  that  covered  the 
entrance  to  the  crypt  to  be  replaced  by  a  wooden  one, 
that  she  might  at  will  descend  and  kneel  by  the  coffin. 
This  was  matter  of  edification  to  all  the  household  and 
should  have  been  peculiarly  pleasing  to  the  chaplain ; 
but,  with  respect  to  you,  he  was  the  kind  of  man  who 
brings  a  sour  mouth  to  the  eating  of  the  sweetest  apple. 
"However  that  may  be,  the  Duchess,  when  she  dis 
missed  him,  was  seen  running  to  the  garden,  where  she 
talked  earnestly  with  the  boy  Antonio  about  the  new 
clove-carnations ;  and   the  rest  of  the  day  she  sat  in- 
[16] 


THE     DUCHESS    AT    PRAYER 

doors  and  played  sweetly  on  the  virginal.  Now  Nencia 
always  had  it  in  mind  that  her  grace  had  made  a  mis 
take  in  refusing  that  request  of  the  chaplain's ;  but  she 
said  nothing,  for  to  talk  reason  to  the  Duchess  was  of 
no  more  use  than  praying  for  rain  in  a  drought. 

"  Winter  came  early  that  year,  there  was  snow  on  the 
hills  by  All  Souls,  the  wind  stripped  the  gardens,  and 
the  lemon-trees  were  nipped  in  the  lemon-house.  The 
Duchess  kept  her  room  in  this  black  season,  sitting 
over  the  fire,  embroidering,  reading  books  of  devotion 
(which  was  a  thing  she  had  never  done)  and  praying 
frequently  in  the  chapel.  As  for  the  chaplain,  it  was  a 
place  he  never  set  foot  in  but  to  say  mass  in  the  morn 
ing,  with  the  Duchess  overhead  in  the  tribune,  and  the 
servants  aching  with  rheumatism  on  the  marble  floor. 
The  chaplain  himself  hated  the  cold,  and  galloped 
through  the  mass  like  a  man  with  witches  after  him. 
The  rest  of  the  day  he  spent  in  his  library,  over  a  bra 
zier,  with  his  eternal  books.  .  . 

"You'll  wonder,  sir,  if  I'm  ever  to  get  to  the  gist 
of  the  story ;  and  I  've  gone  slowly,  I  own,  for  fear  of 
what 's  coming.  Well,  the  winter  was  long  and  hard. 
When  it  fell  cold  the  Duke  ceased  to  come  out  from 
Vicenza,  and  not  a  soul  had  the  Duchess  to  speak  to 
but  her  maid-servants  and  the  gardeners  about  the 
place.  Yet  it  was  wonderful,  my  grandmother  said,  how 
she  kept  her  brave  colors  and  her  spirits ;  only  it  was 
[17] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

remarked  that  she  prayed  longer  in  the  chapel,  where 
a  brazier  was  kept  burning  for  her  all  day.  When  the 
young  are  denied  their  natural  pleasures  they  turn 
often  enough  to  religion ;  and  it  was  a  mercy,  as  my 
grandmother  said,  that  she,  who  had  scarce  a  live  sinner 
to  speak  to,  should  take  such  comfort  in  a  dead  saint. 

"My  grandmother  seldom  saw  her  that  winter,  for 
though  she  showed  a  brave  front  to  all  she  kept  more 
and  more  to  herself,  choosing  to  have  only  Nencia  about 
her  and  dismissing  even  her  when  she  went  to  pray. 
For  her  devotion  had  that  mark  of  true  piety,  that  she 
wished  it  not  to  be  observed ;  so  that  Nencia  had  strict 
orders,  on  the  chaplain's  approach,  to  warn  her  mistress 
if  she  happened  to  be  in  prayer. 

"Well,  the  winter  passed,  and  spring  was  well  for 
ward,  when  my  grandmother  one  evening  had  a  bad 
fright.  That  it  was  her  own  fault  I  won't  deny,  for  she  'd 
been  down  the  lime-walk  with  Antonio  when  her  aunt 
fancied  her  to  be  stitching  in  her  chamber ;  and  seeing 
a  sudden  light  in  Nencia's  window,  she  took  fright  lest 
her  disobedience  be  found  out,  and  ran  up  quickly 
through  the  laurel-grove  to  the  house.  Her  way  lay  by 
the  chapel,  and  as  she  crept  past  it,  meaning  to  slip  in 
through  the  scullery,  and  groping  her  way,  for  the  dark 
had  fallen  and  the  moon  was  scarce  up,  she  heard  a 
crash  close  behind  her,  as  though  someone  had  dropped 
from  a  window  of  the  chapel.  The  young  fool's  heart 
[18] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

turned  over,  but  she  looked  round  as  she  ran,  and  there, 
sure  enough,  was  a  man  scuttling  across  the  terrace ; 
and  as  he  doubled  the  corner  of  the  house  my  grand 
mother  swore  she  caught  the  whisk  of  the  chaplain's 
skirts.  Now  that  was  a  strange  thing,  certainly;  for  why 
should  the  chaplain  be  getting  out  of  the  chapel  win 
dow  when  he  might  have  passed  through  the  door  ?  For 
you  may  have  noticed,  sir,  there  's  a  door  leads  from  the 
chapel  into  the  saloon  on  the  ground  floor ;  the  only 
other  way  out  being  through  the  Duchess's  tribune. 

"Well,  my  grandmother  turned  the  matter  over,  and 
next  time  she  met  Antonio  in  the  lime-walk  (which,  by 
reason  of  her  fright,  was  not  for  some  days)  she  laid 
before  him  what  had  happened ;  but  to  her  surprise  he 
only  laughed  and  said,  'You  little  simpleton,  he  wasn't 
getting  out  of  the  window,  he  was  trying  to  look  in' ; 
and  not  another  word  could  she  get  from  him. 

"So  the  season  moved  on  to  Easter,  and  news  came 
the  Duke  had  gone  to  Rome  for  that  holy  festivity.  His 
comings  and  goings  made  no  change  at  the  villa,  and 
yet  there  was  no  one  there  but  felt  easier  to  think  his 
yellow  face  was  on  the  far  side  of  the  Apennines,  un 
less  perhaps  it  was  the  chaplain. 

"Well,  it  was  one  day  in  May  that  the  Duchess,  wno 
had  walked  long  with  Nencia  on  the  terrace,  rejoicing 
at  the  sweetness  of  the  prospect  and  the  pleasant  scent 
of  the  gilly-flowers  in  the  stone  vases,  the  Duchess 

[19] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

toward  midday  withdrew  to  her  rooms,  giving  orders 
that  her  dinner  should  be  served  in  her  bed-chamber. 
My  grandmother  helped  to  carry  in  the  dishes,  and  ob 
served,  she  said,  the  singular  beauty  of  the  Duchess, 
who  in  honor  of  the  fine  weather  had  put  on  a  gown 
of  shot-silver  and  hung  her  bare  shoulders  with  pearls, 
so  that  she  looked  fit  to  dance  at  court  with  an  emperor. 
She  had  ordered,  too,  a  rare  repast  for  a  lady  that  heeded 
so  little  what  she  ate — jellies,  game-pasties,  fruits  in 
syrup,  spiced  cakes  and  a  flagon  of  Greek  wine ;  and 
she  nodded  and  clapped  her  hands  as  the  women  set 
it  before  her,  saying  again  and  again,  'I  shall  eat  well 
to-day/ 

"But  presently  another  mood  seized  her;  she  turned 
from  the  table,  called  for  her  rosary,  and  said  to  Nen- 
cia:  'The  fine  weather  has  made  me  neglect  my  devo 
tions.  I  must  say  a  litany  before  I  dine.' 

"She  ordered  the  women  out  and  barred  the  door, 
as  her  custom  was;  and  Nencia  and  my  grandmother 
went  down-stairs  to  work  in  the  linen-room. 

"Now  the  linen-room  gives  on  the  court-yard,  and 
suddenly  my  grandmother  saw  a  strange  sight  approach 
ing.  First  up  the  avenue  came  the  Duke's  carriage 
(whom  all  thought  to  be  in  Rome),  arid  after  it,  drawn 
by  a  long  string  of  mules  and  oxen,  a  cart  carrying 
what  looked  like  a  kneeling  figure  wrapped  in  death- 
clothes.  The  strangeness  of  it  struck  the  girl  dumb  and 
[  20  ] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

the  Duke's  coach  was  at  the  door  before  she  had  the 
wit  to  cry  out  that  it  was  coming.  Nencia,  when  she 
saw  it,  went  white  and  ran  out  of  the  room.  My  grand 
mother  followed,  scared  by  her  face,  and  the  two  fled 
along  the  corridor  to  the  chapel.  On  the  way  they  met 
the  chaplain,  deep  in  a  book,  who  asked  in  surprise 
where  they  were  running,  and  when  they  said,  to  an 
nounce  the  Duke's  arrival,  he  fell  into  such  astonish 
ment  and  asked  them  so  many  questions  and  uttered 
such  ohs  and  ahs,  that  by  the  time  he  let  them  by  the 
Duke  was  at  their  heels.  Nencia  reached  the  chapel- 
door  first  and  cried  out  that  the  Duke  was  coming;  and 
before  she  had  a  reply  he  was  at  her  side,  with  the 
chaplain  following. 

"A  moment  later  the  door  opened  and  there  stood 
the  Duchess.  She  held  her  rosary  in  one  hand  and  had 
drawn  a  scarf  over  her  shoulders;  but  they  shone 
through  it  like  the  moon  in  a  mist,  and  her  counte 
nance  sparkled  with  beauty. 

"The  Duke  took  her  hand  with  a  bow.  < Madam,'  he 
said,  'I  could  have  had  no  greater  happiness  than  thus 
to  surprise  you  at  your  devotions.' 

"'My  own  happiness,'  she  replied,  ' would  have  been 
greater  had  your  excellency  prolonged  it  by  giving  me 
notice  of  your  arrival.' 

"'Had  you  expected  me,  Madam,'  said  he,  'your  ap 
pearance  could  scarcely  have  been  more  fitted  to  the 
[21] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

occasion.  Few  ladies  of  your  youth  and  beauty  array 
themselves  to  venerate  a  saint  as  they  would  to  wel 
come  a  lover.' 

'" Sir/  she  answered, ' having  never  enjoyed  the  latter 
opportunity,  I  am  constrained  to  make  the  most  of  the 
former.— What's  that?'  she  cried,  falling  back,  and  the 
rosary  dropped  from  her  hand. 

"There  was  a  loud  noise  at  the  other  end  of  the 
saloon,  as  of  a  heavy  object  being  dragged  down  the 
passage ;  and  presently  a  dozen  men  were  seen  haling 
across  the  threshold  the  shrouded  thing  from  the  ox 
cart.  The  Duke  waved  his  hand  toward  it.  'That,'  said 
he,  'Madam,  is  a  tribute  to  your  extraordinary  piety.  I 
have  heard  with  peculiar  satisfaction  of  your  devotion 
to  the  blessed  relics  in  this  chapel,  and  to  commemor 
ate  a  zeal  which  neither  the  rigors  of  winter  nor  the 
sultriness  of  summer  could  abate  I  have  ordered  a 
sculptured  image  of  you,  marvellously  executed  by  the 
Cavaliere  Bernini,  to  be  placed  before  the  altar  over 
the  entrance  to  the  crypt.' 

"The  Duchess,  who  had  grown  pale,  nevertheless 
smiled  playfully  at  this.  'As  to  commemorating  my 
piety,'  she  said,  f  I  recognize  there  one  of  your  excel 
lency's  pleasantries  — ' 

"'A  pleasantry?'  the  Duke  interrupted;  and  he 
made  a  sign  to  the  men,  who  had  now  reached  the 
threshold  of  the  chapel.  In  an  instant  the  wrappings 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

fell  from  the  figure,  and  there  knelt  the  Duchess  to 
the  life.  A  cry  of  wonder  rose  from  all,  but  the  Duch 
ess  herself  stood  whiter  than  the  marble. 

"'  You  will  see,'  says  the  Duke,  'this  is  no  pleasantry, 
but  a  triumph  of  the  incomparable  Bernini's  chisel.  The 
likeness  was  done  from  your  miniature  portrait  by  the 
divine  Elisabetta  Sirani,  which  I  sent  to  the  master 
some  six  months  ago,  with  what  results  all  must  admire.' 

"'Six  months!'  cried  the  Duchess,  and  seemed  about 
to  fall;  but  his  excellency  caught  her  by  the  hand. 

e"  Nothing,'  he  said,  '  could  better  please  me  than 
the  excessive  emotion  you  display,  for  true  piety  is 
ever  modest,  and  your  thanks  could  not  take  a  form 
that  better  became  you.  And  now,'  says  he  to  the  men, 
'let  the  image  be  put  in  place.' 

"By  this,  life  seemed  to  have  returned  to  the  Duch 
ess,  and  she  answered  him  with  a  deep  reverence. 
'That  I  should  be  overcome  by  so  unexpected  a  grace, 
your  excellency  admits  to  be  natural;  but  what  honors 
you  accord  it  is  my  privilege  to  accept,  and  I  entreat 
only  that  in  mercy  to  my  modesty  the  image  be  placed 
in  the  remotest  part  of  the  chapel.' 

"At  that  the  Duke  darkened.  'What!  You  would 
have  this  masterpiece  of  a  renowned  chisel,  which,  I 
disguise  not,  cost  me  the  price  of  a  good  vineyard  in 
gold  pieces,  you  would  have  it  thrust  out  of  sight  like 
the  work  of  a  village  stonecutter?' 
[23] 


THE    DUCHESS    AT    PRAYER 

"'It  is  my  semblance,  not  the  sculptor's  work,  I 
desire  to  conceal/ 

" '  If  you  are  fit  for  my  house,  Madam,  you  are  fit  for 
God's,  and  entitled  to  the  place  of  honor  in  both.  Bring 
the  statue  forward,  you  dawdlers!'  he  called  out  to  the 
men. 

"The  Duchess  fell  back  submissively,,  'You  are  right, 
sir,  as  always;  but  I  would  at  least  have  the  image  stand 
on  the  left  of  the  altar,  that,  looking  up,  it  may  behold 
your  excellency's  seat  in  the  tribune.' 

"' A  pretty  thought,  Madam,  for  which  I  thank  you; 
but  I  design  before  long  to  put  my  companion  image 
on  the  other  side  of  the  altar;  and  the  wife's  place,  as 
you  know,  is  at  her  husband's  right  hand.' 

"'True,  my  lord — but,  again,  if  my  poor  present 
ment  is  to  have  the  unmerited  honor  of  kneeling  be 
side  yours,  why  not  place  both  before  the  altar,  where 
it  is  our  habit  to  pray  in  life?' 

"'And  where,  Madam,  should  we  kneel  if  they  took 
our  places?  Besides,'  says  the  Duke,  still  speaking  very 
blandly,  'I  have  a  more  particular  purpose  in  placing 
your  image  over  the  entrance  to  the  crypt;  for  not  only 
would  I  thereby  mark  your  special  devotion  to  the  blessed 
saint  who  rests  there,  but,  by  sealing  up  the  opening  in 
the  pavement,  would  assure  the  perpetual  preservation 
of  that  holy  martyr's  bones,  which  hitherto  have  been 
too  thoughtlessly  exposed  to  sacrilegious  attempts.' 
[24] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

"'What  attempts,  my  lord?'  cries  the  Duchess.  'No 
one  enters  this  chapel  without  my  leave.' 

"'So  I  have  understood,  and  can  well  believe  from 
what  I  have  learned  of  your  piety ;  yet  at  night  a  male 
factor  might  break  in  through  a  window,  Madam,  and 
your  excellency  not  know  it.' 

'"I'm  a  light  sleeper,'  said  the  Duchess. 

"The  Duke  looked  at  her  gravely.  'Indeed?'  said 
he.  'A  bad  sign  at  your  age.  I  must  see  that  you  are 
provided  with  a  sleeping-draught.' 

"The  Duchess's  eyes  filled.  'You  would  deprive  me, 
then,  of  the  consolation  of  visiting  those  venerable 
relics?' 

'"I  would  have  you  keep  eternal  guard  over  them, 
knowing  no  one  to  whose  care  they  may  more  fittingly 
be  entrusted.' 

"By  this  the  image  was  brought  close  to  the  wooden 
slab  that  covered  the  entrance  to  the  crypt,  when 
the  Duchess,  springing  forward,  placed  herself  in  the 
way. 

"'Sir,  let  the  statue  be  put  in  place  to-morrow,  and 
suffer  me,  to-night,  to  say  a  last  prayer  beside  those 
holy  bones.' 

"The  Duke  stepped  instantly  to  her  side.  'Well 
thought,  Madam;  I  will  go  down  with  you  now,  and 
we  will  pray  together.' 

"'Sir,  your  long  absences  have,  alas!  given  me  the 
[25] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

habit  of  solitary  devotion,  and  I  confess  that  any  pres 
ence  is  distracting/ 

"( Madam,  I  accept  your  rebuke.  Hitherto,  it  is  true, 
the  duties  of  my  station  have  constrained  me  to  long 
absences;  but  henceforward  I  remain  with  you  while 
you  live.  Shall  we  go  down  into  the  crypt  together?' 

"'No;  for  I  fear  for  your  excellency's  ague.  The  air 
there  is  excessively  damp.' 

"'The  more  reason  you  should  no  longer  be  exposed 
to  it;  and  to  prevent  the  intemperance  of  your  zeal  I 
will  at  once  make  the  place  inaccessible.' 

"The  Duchess  at  this  fell  on  her  knees  on  the  slab, 
weeping  excessively  and  lifting  her  hands  to  heaven. 

"fOh/  she  cried,  'you  are  cruel,  sir,  to  deprive  me 
of  access  to  the  sacred  relics  that  have  enabled  me  to 
support  with  resignation  the  solitude  to  which  your 
excellency's  duties  have  condemned  me;  and  if  prayer 
and  meditation  give  me  any  authority  to  pronounce  on 
such  matters,  suffer  me  to  warn  you,  sir,  that  I  fear  the 
blessed  Saint  Blandina  will  punish  us  for  thus  abandon 
ing  her  venerable  remains ! ' 

"The  Duke  at  this  seemed  to  pause,  for  he  was  a 
pious  man,  and  my  grandmother  thought  she  saw  him 
exchange  a  glance  with  the  chaplain;  who,  stepping 
timidly  forward,  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground,  said, 
'There  is  indeed  much  wisdom  in  her  excellency's 
words,  but  I  would  suggest,  sir,  that  her  pious  wish 
[26] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

might  be  met,  and  the  saint  more  conspicuously  hon 
ored,  by  transferring  the  relics  from  the  crypt  to  a 
place  beneath  the  altar.' 

"'True!'  cried  the  Duke,  'and  it  shall  be  done  at 
once.' 

"But  thereat  the  Duchess  rose  to  her  feet  with  a 
terrible  look. 

"'No/  she  cried,  'by  the  body  of  God!  For  it  shall 
not  be  said  that,  after  your  excellency  has  chosen  to 
deny  every  request  I  addressed  to  him,  I  owe  his  con 
sent  to  the  solicitation  of  another!' 

"The  chaplain  turned  red  and  the  Duke  yellow,  and 
for  a  moment  neither  spoke. 

"Then  the  Duke  said,  'Here  are  words  enough, 
Madam.  Do  you  wish  the  relics  brought  up  from  the 
crypt?' 

"'I  wish  nothing  that  I  owe  to  another's  interven 
tion  ! ' 

'"Put  the  image  in  place  then,'  says  the  Duke 
furiously;  and  handed  her  grace  to  a  chair. 

"She  sat  there,  my  grandmother  said,  straight  as 
an  arrow,  her  hands  locked,  her  head  high,  her  eyes 
on  the  Duke,  while  the  statue  was  dragged  to  its 
place;  then  she  stood  up  and  turned  away.  As  she 
passed  by  Nencia,  'Call  me  Antonio/  she  whispered; 
but  before  the  words  were  out  of  her  mouth  the  Duke 
stepped  between  them. 

[27] 


THE    DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

"' Madam/  says  he,  all  smiles  now,  'I  have  travelled 
straight  from  Rome  to  bring  you  the  sooner  this  proof 
of  my  esteem.  I  lay  last  night  at  Monselice  and  have 
been  on  the  road  since  daybreak.  Will  you  not  invite 
me  to  supper?' 

"' Surely,  my  lord/  said  the  Duchess.  'It  shall  be 
laid  in  the  dining-parlor  within  the  hour.' 

"'Why  not  in  your  chamber  and  at  once,  Madam? 
Since  I  believe  it  is  your  custom  to  sup  there.' 

"'In  my  chamber?'  says  the  Duchess,  in  disorder. 

"'Have  you  anything  against  it?'  he  asked. 

"'Assuredly  not,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  time  to  pre 
pare  myself.' 

"'I  will  wait  in  your  cabinet,'  said  the  Duke. 

"At  that,  said  my  grandmother,  the  Duchess  gave 
one  look,  as  the  souls  in  hell  may  have  looked  when 
the  gates  closed  on  our  Lord;  then  she  called  Nencia 
and  passed  to  her  chamber. 

"What  happened  there  my  grandmother  could  never 
learn,  but  that  the  Duchess,  in  great  haste,  dressed 
herself  with  extraordinary  splendor,  powdering  her 
hair  with  gold,  painting  her  face  and  bosom,  and  cov 
ering  herself  with  jewels  till  she  shone  like  our  Lady 
of  Loreto ;  and  hardly  were  these  preparations  complete 
when  the  Duke  entered  from  the  cabinet,  followed  by 
the  servants  carrying  supper.  Thereupon  the  Duchess 
dismissed  Nencia,  and  what  follows  my  grandmother 
[281 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    TRAYER 

learned  from  a  pantry-lad  who  brought  up  the  dishes 
and  waited  in  the  cabinet;  for  only  the  Duke's  body- 
servant  entered  the  bed-chamber. 

"Well,  according  to  this  boy,  sir,  who  was  looking 
and  listening  with  his  whole  body,  as  it  were,  because 
he  had  never  before  been  suffered  so  near  the  Duchess, 
it  appears  that  the  noble  couple  sat  down  in  great  good 
humor,  the  Duchess  playfully  reproving  her  husband 
for  his  long  absence,  while  the  Duke  swore  that  to 
look  so  beautiful  was  the  best  way  of  punishing  him. 
In  this  tone  the  talk  continued,  with  such  gay  sallies 
on  the  part  of  the  Duchess,  such  tender  advances  on 
the  Duke's,  that  the  lad  declared  they  were  for  all 
the  world  like  a  pair  of  lovers  courting  on  a  summer's 
night  in  the  vineyard;  and  so  it  went  till  the  servant 
brought  in  the  mulled  wine. 

"'Ah/  the  Duke  was  saying  at  that  moment,  'this 
agreeable  evening  repays  me  for  the  many  dull  ones  I 
have  spent  away  from  you ;  nor  do  I  remember  to  have 
enjoyed  such  laughter  since  the  afternoon  last  year 
when  we  drank  chocolate  in  the  gazebo  with  my  cousin 
Ascanio.  And  that  reminds  me/  he  said,  'is  my  cousin 
in  good  health?' 

"'I  have  no  reports  of  it/  says  the  Duchess.  'But 
your  excellency  should  taste  these  figs  stewed  in  malm- 
sey- 

<"I  am  in  the  mood  to  taste  whatever  you  offer/  said 
[29] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT     PRAYER 

he;  and  as  she  helped  him  to  the  figs  he  added,  flf  my 
enjoyment  were  not  complete  as  it  is,  I  could  almost 
wish  my  cousin  Ascanio  were  with  us.  The  fellow  is  rare 
good  company  at  supper.  What  do  you  say,  Madam?  I 
hear  he  's  still  in  the  country;  shall  we  send  for  him  to 
join  us?' 

"<Ah,'  said  the  Duchess,  with  a  sigh  and  a  languish 
ing  look,  'I  see  your  excellency  wearies  of  me  already.' 

"  fl,  Madam?  Ascanio  is  a  capital  good  fellow,  but  to 
my  mind  his  chief  merit  at  this  moment  is  his  absence. 
It  inclines  me  so  tenderly  to  him  that,  by  God,  I  could 
empty  a  glass  to  his  good  health.' 

"With  that  the  Duke  caught  up  his  goblet  and 
signed  to  the  servant  to  fill  the  Duchess's. 

'" Here's  to  the  cousin,'  he  cried,  standing,  'who  has 
the  good  taste  to  stay  away  when  he 's  not  wanted.  I 
drink  to  his  very  long  life  —  and  you,  Madam?' 

"At  this  the  Duchess,  who  had  sat  staring  at  him 
with  a  changed  face,  rose  also  and  lifted  her  glass  to 
her  lips. 

"  ' And  I  to  his  happy  death,'  says  she  in  a  wild  voice; 
and  as  she  spoke  the  empty  goblet  dropped  from  her 
hand  and  she  fell  face  down  on  the  floor. 

"The    Duke    shouted  to   her  women  that  she  had 

swooned,  and  they  came  and  lifted  her  to  the  bed.  .  . 

She  suffered  horribly  all  night,  Nencia   said,  twisting 

herself  like  a  heretic  at  the  stake,  but  without  a  word 

[30] 


THE     DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

escaping  her.  The  Duke  watched  by  her,  and  toward 
daylight  sent  for  the  chaplain;  but  by  this  she  was  un 
conscious  and,  her  teeth  being  locked,  our  Lord's  body 
could  not  be  passed  through  them. 

"The  Duke  announced  to  his  relations  that  his  lady 
had  died  after  partaking  too  freely  of  spiced  wine  and 
an  omelet  of  carp's  roe,  at  a  supper  she  had  prepared 
in  honor  of  his  return ;  and  the  next  year  he  brought 
home  a  new  Duchess,  who  gave  him  a  son  and  five 
daughters.  .  ." 


THE  sky  had  turned  to  a  steel  gray,  against  which 
the  villa  stood  out  sallow  and  inscrutable.  A  wind 
strayed  through  the  gardens,  loosening  here  and  there 
a  yellow  leaf  from  the  sycamores;  and  the  hills  across 
the  valley  were  purple  as  thunder-clouds. 

"And  the  statue — ?"  I  asked. 

"Ah,  the  statue.  Well,  sir,  this  is  what  my  grand 
mother  told  me,  here  on  this  very  bench  where  we  're 
sitting.  The  poor  child,  who  worshipped  the  Duchess  as 
a  girl  of  her  years  will  worship  a  beautiful  kind  mis 
tress,  spent  a  night  of  horror,  you  may  fancy,  shut  out 
from  her  lady's  room,  hearing  the  cries  that  came  from 
it,  and  seeing,  as  she  crouched  in  her  corner,  the  women 
[31  ] 


THE    DUCHESS     AT    PRAYER 

rush  to  and  fro  with  wild  looks^  the  Duke's  lean  face  in 
the  door,  and  the  chaplain  skulking  in  the  antechamber 
with  his  eyes  on  his  breviary.  No  one  minded  her  that 
night  or  the  next  morning;  and  toward  dusk,  when  it 
became  known  the  Duchess  was  no  more,  the  poor  girl 
felt  the  pious  wish  to  say  a  prayer  for  her  dead  mis 
tress.  She  crept  to  the  chapel  and  stole  in  unobserved. 
The  place  was  empty  and  dim,  but  as  she  advanced  she 
heard  a  low  moaning,  and  coming  in  front  of  the  statue 
she  saw  that  its  face,  the  day  before  so  sweet  and  smil 
ing,  had  the  look  on  it  that  you  know — and  the  moan 
ing  seemed  to  come  from  its  lips.   My  grandmother 
turned  cold,  but  something,  she  said  afterward,  kept 
her  from  calling  or  shrieking  out,  and  she  turned  and 
ran  from  the  place.  In  the  passage  she  fell  in  a  swoon; 
and  when  she  came  to  her  senses,  in  her  own  chamber, 
she  heard  that  the  Duke  had  locked  the  chapel  door 
and   forbidden   any  to   set   foot   there.  .  .  The   place 
was  never  opened  again  till  the  Duke  died,  some  ten 
years  later;  and  then  it  was  that  the  other  servants,  go 
ing  in  with  the  new  heir,  saw  for  the  first  time  the  hor 
ror  that  my  grandmother  had  kept  in  her  bosom.  .  ." 

"And   the   crypt?"    I  asked.   "Has   it   never   been 
opened?" 

"Heaven  forbid,  sir!"   cried  the  old  man,  crossing 
himself.  "Was  it  not  the  Duchess's  express  wish  that 
the  relics  should  not  be  disturbed?" 
[32] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE    GRAVE 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE    GRAVE 

THE  House  stood  a  few  yards  back  from  the 
elm-shaded  village  street,  in  that  semi-pub 
licity  sometimes  cited  as  a  democratic  protest 
against  old-world  standards  of  domestic  exclusiveness. 
This  candid  exposure  to  the  public  eye  is  more  probably 
a  result  of  the  gregariousness  which,  in  the  New  Eng 
land  bosom,  oddly  coexists  with  a  shrinking  from  direct 
social  contact ;  most  of  the  inmates  of  such  houses  pre 
ferring  that  furtive  intercourse  which  is  the  result  of 
observations  through  shuttered  windows  and  a  categor 
ical  acquaintance  with  the  neighboring  clothes-lines. 
The  House,  however,  faced  its  public  with  a  difference. 
For  sixty  years  it  had  written  itself  with  a  capital  let 
ter,  had  self-consciously  squared  itself  in  the  eye  of  an 
admiring  nation.  The  most  searching  inroads  of  village 
intimacy  hardly  counted  in  a  household  that  opened  on 
the  universe;  and  a  lady  whose  door-bell  was  at  any 
moment  liable  to  be  rung  by  visitors  from  London  or 
Vienna  was  not  likely  to  nutter  up-stairs  when  she  ob 
served  a  neighbor  e(  stepping  over." 

The  solitary  inmate  of  the  Anson  House  owed  this 
induration  of  the  social  texture  to  the  most  conspicuous 
accident  in  her  annals:  the  fact  that  she  was  the  only 
granddaughter  of  the  great  Orestes  Anson.  She  had 

r  35 1 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

been  born,  as  it  were,  into  a  museum,  and  cradled  in  a 
glass  case  with  a  label ;  the  first  foundations  of  her  con 
sciousness  being  built  on  the  rock  of  her  grandfather's 
celebrity.  To  a  little  girl  who  acquires  her  earliest 
knowledge  of  literature  through  a  Reader  embellished 
with  fragments  of  her  ancestor's  prose,  that  personage 
necessarily  fills  an  heroic  space  in  the  foreground  of  life. 
To  communicate  with  one's  past  through  the  impressive 
medium  of  print,  to  have,  as  it  were,  a  footing  in  e;very 
library  in  the  country,  and  an  acknowledged  kinship 
with  that  world-diffused  clan,  the  descendants  of  the 
great,  was  to  be  pledged  to  a  standard  of  manners  that 
amazingly  simplified  the  lesser  relations  of  life.  The  vil 
lage  street  on  which  Paulina  Anson's  youth  looked  out 
led  to  all  the  capitals  of  Europe ;  and  over  the  roads  of 
intercommunication  unseen  caravans  bore  back  to  the 
elm-shaded  House  the  tribute  of  an  admiring  world. 

Fate  seemed  to  have  taken  a  direct  share  in  fitting 
Paulina  for  her  part  as  the  custodian  of  this  historic 
dwelling.  It  had  long  been  secretly  regarded  as  a  "visi 
tation"  by  the  great  man's  family  that  he  had  left  no 
son  and  that  his  daughters  were  not  " intellectual." 
The  ladies  themselves  were  the  first  to  lament  their  de 
ficiency,  to  own  that  nature  had  denied  them  the  gift 
of  making  the  most  of  their  opportunities.  A  profound 
veneration  for  their  parent  and  an  unswerving  faith  in 
hk  doctrines  had  not  amended  their  congenital  inca- 
[36] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

parity  to  understand  what  he  had  written.  Laura,  who 
had  her  moments  of  mute  rebellion  against  destiny, 
had  sometimes  thought  how  much  easier  it  would  have 
been  if  their  progenitor  had  been  a  poet ;  for  she  could 
recite,  with  feeling,  portions  of  The  Culprit  Fay  and 
of  the  poems  of  Mrs.  Hemans;  and  Phoebe,  who  was 
more  conspicuous  for  memory  than  imagination,  kept 
an  album  filled  with  "selections."  But  the  great  man 
was  a  philosopher;  and  to  both  daughters  respiration 
was  difficult  on  the  cloudy  heights  of  metaphysic.  The 
situation  would  have  been  intolerable  but  for  the  fact 
that,  while  Phoebe  and  Laura  were  still  at  school,  their 
father's  fame  had  passed  from  the  open  ground  of  con 
jecture  to  the  chill  privacy  of  certitude.  Dr.  An  son  had 
in  fact  achieved  one  of  those  anticipated  immortalities 
not  uncommon  at  a  time  when  people  were  apt  to  base 
their  literary  judgments  on  their  emotions,  and  when 
to  affect  plain  food  and  despise  England  went  a  long 
way  toward  establishing  a  man's  intellectual  pre-emi 
nence.  Thus,  when  the  daughters  were  called  on  to 
strike  a  filial  attitude  about  their  parent's  pedestal, 
there  was  little  to  do  but  to  pose  gracefully  and  point 
upward;  and  there  are  spines  to  which  the  immobility 
of  worship  is  not  a  strain.  A  legend  had  by  this  time 
crystallized  about  the  great  Orestes,  and  it  was  of  more 
immediate  interest  to  the  public  to  hear  what  brand  of 
tea  he  drank,  and  whether  he  took  off  his  boots  in  the 
[37] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

hall,  than  to  rouse  the  drowsy  echo  of  his  dialectic.  A 
great  man  never  draws  so  near  his  public  as  when  it 
has  become  unnecessary  to  read  his  books  and  is  still 
interesting  to  know  what  he  eats  for  breakfast. 

As  recorders  of  their  parent's  domestic  habits,  as 
pious  scavengers  of  his  waste-paper  basket,  the  Misses 
Anson  were  unexcelled.  They  always  had  an  interesting 
anecdote  to  impart  to  the  literary  pilgrim,  and  the  tact 
with  which,  in  later  years,  they  intervened  between 
the  public  and  the  growing  inaccessibility  of  its  idol, 
sent  away  many  an  enthusiast  satisfied  to  have  touched 
the  veil  before  the  sanctuary.  Still  it  was  felt,  espe 
cially  by  old  Mrs.  Anson,  who  survived  her  husband  for 
some  years,  that  Phoebe  and  Laura  were  not  worthy  of 
their  privileges.  There  had  been  a  third  daughter  so 
unworthy  of  hers  that  she  had  married  a  distant  cousin, 
who  had  taken  her  to  live  in  a  new  Western  commu 
nity  where  the  Works  of  Orestes  Anson  had  not  yet 
become  a  part  of  the  civic  consciousness;  but  of  this 
daughter  little  was  said,  and  she  was  tacitly  understood 
to  be  excluded  from  the  family  heritage  of  fame.  In 
time,  however,  it  appeared  that  the  traditional  penny 
with  which  she  had  been  cut  off  had  been  invested  to 
unexpected  advantage;  and  the  interest  on  it,  when 
she  died,  returned  to  the  Anson  House  in  the  shape  of 
a  granddaughter  who  was  at  once  felt  to  be  what  Mrs. 
Anson  called  a  "  compensation."  It  was  Mrs.  Anson's 
[38] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

firm  belief  that  the  remotest  operations  of  nature  were 
governed  by  the  centripetal  force  of  her  husband's 
greatness  and  that  Paulina's  exceptional  intelligence 
could  be  explained  only  on  the  ground  that  she  was 
designed  to  act  as  the  guardian  of  the  family  temple. 

The  House,  by  the  time  Paulina  came  to  live  in  it, 
had  already  acquired  the  publicity  of  a  place  of  wor 
ship;  not  the  perfumed  chapel  of  a  romantic  idolatry 
but  the  cold  clean  empty  meeting-house  of  ethical 
enthusiasms.  The  ladies  lived  on  its  outskirts,  as  it 
were,  in  cells  that  left  the  central  fane  undisturbed. 
The  very  position  of  the  furniture  had  come  to  have  a 
ritual  significance:  the  sparse  ornaments  were  the  of 
ferings  of  kindred  intellects,  the  steel  engravings  by 
Raphael  Morghen  marked  the  Via  Sacra  of  a  European 
tour,  and  the  black-walnut  desk  with  its  bronze  ink 
stand  modelled  on  the  Pantheon  was  the  altar  of  this 
bleak  temple  of  thought. 

To  a  child  compact  of  enthusiasms,  and  accustomed 
to  pasture  them  on  the  scanty  herbage  of  a  new  social 
soil,  the  atmosphere  of  the  old  house  was  full  of  float 
ing  nourishment.  In  the  compressed  perspective  of 
Paulina's  outlook  it  stood  for  a  monument  of  ruined 
civilizations,  and  its  white  portico  opened  on  legendary 
distances.  Its  very  aspect  was  impressive  to  eyes  that 
had  first  surveyed  life  from  the  jig-saw  " residence"  of 
a  raw-edged  Western  town.  The  high-ceilinged  rooms, 
[39] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE    GRAVE 

with  their  panelled  walls,  their  polished  mahogany, 
their  portraits  of  triple-stocked  ancestors  and  of  ring 
leted  "females"  in  crayon,  furnished  the  child  with 
the  historic  scenery  against  which  a  young  imagination 
constructs  its  vision  of  the  past.  To  other  eyes  the  cold 
spotless  thinly-furnished  interior  might  have  suggested 
the  shuttered  mind  of  a  maiden-lady  who  associates 
fresh  air  and  sunlight  with  dust  and  discoloration;  but 
it  is  the  eye  which  supplies  the  coloring-matter,  and 
Paulina's  brimmed  with  the  richest  hues. 

Nevertheless,  the  House  did  not  immediately  domi 
nate  her.  She  had  her  confused  out-reachings  toward 
other  centres  of  sensation,  her  vague  intuition  of  a  he 
liocentric  system;  but  the  attraction  of  habit,  the 
steady  pressure  of  example,  gradually  fixed  her  roving 
allegiance  and  she  bent  her  neck  to  the  yoke.  Vanity 
had  a  share  in  her  subjugation;  for  it  had  early  been 
discovered  that  she  was  the  only  person  in  the  family 
who  could  read  her  grandfather's  works.  The  fact  that 
she  had  perused  them  with  delight  at  an  age  when 
(even  presupposing  a  metaphysical  bias)  it  was  im 
possible  for  her  to  understand  them,  seemed  to  her 
aunts  and  grandmother  sure  evidence  of  predestina 
tion.  Paulina  was  to  be  the  interpreter  of  the  oracle, 
and  the  philosophic  fumes  so  vertiginous  to  meaner 
minds  would  throw  her  into  the  needed  condition  of 
clairvoyance.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  genuine 
[40] 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

than  the  emotion  on  which  this  theory  was  based. 
Paulina,  in  fact,  delighted  in  her  grandfather's  writ 
ings.  His  sonorous  periods,  his  mystic  vocabulary,  his 
bold  nights  into  the  rarefied  air  of  the  abstract,  were 
thrilling  to  a  fancy  unhampered  by  the  need  of  defi 
nitions.  This  purely  verbal  pleasure  was  supplemented 
later  by  the  excitement  of  gathering  up  crumbs  of 
meaning  from  the  rhetorical  board.  What  could  have 
been  more  stimulating  than  to  construct  the  theory  of 
a  girlish  world  out  of  the  fragments  of  this  Titanic 
cosmogony?  Before  Paulina's  opinions  had  reached  the 
stage  when  ossification  sets  in  their  form  was  fatally 
predetermined. 

The  fact  that  Dr.  Anson  had  died  and  that  his 
apotheosis  had  taken  place  before  his  young  priestess's 
induction  to  the  temple,  made  her  ministrations  easier 
and  more  inspiring.  There  were  no  little  personal  traits 
—  such  as  the  great  man's  manner  of  helping  himself 
to  salt,  or  the  guttural  cluck  that  started  the  wheels  of 
speech — to  distract  the  eye  of  young  veneration  from 
the  central  fact  of  his  divinity.  A  man  whom  one 
knows  only  through  a  crayon  portrait  and  a  dozen  yel 
lowing  tomes  on  free-will  and  intuition  is  at  least  se 
cure  from  the  belittling  effects  of  intimacy. 

Paulina  thus  grew  up  in  a  world  readjusted  to  the 
fact  of  her  grandfather's  greatness ;  and  as  each  organ 
ism  draws  from  its  surroundings  the  kind  of  nourish- 
[41  ] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

ment  most  needful  to  its  growth,  so  from  this  somewhat 
colorless  conception  she  absorbed  warmth,  brightness 
and  variety.  Paulina  was  the  type  of  woman  who  trans 
mutes  thought  into  sensation  and  nurses  a  theory  in 
her  bosom  like  a  child. 

In  due  course  Mrs.  Anson  "passed  away" — no  one 
died  in  the  Anson  vocabulary — and  Paulina  became 
more  than  ever  the  foremost  figure  of  the  commemora 
tive  group.  Laura  and  Phoebe,  content  to  leave  their 
father's  glory  in  more  competent  hands,  placidly  lapsed 
into  needlework  and  fiction,  and  their  niece  stepped 
into  immediate  prominence  as  the  chief  "authority"  on 
the  great  man.  Historians  who  were  "getting  up"  the 
period  wrote  to  consult  her  and  to  borrow  documents ; 
ladies  with  inexplicable  yearnings  begged  for  an  inter 
pretation  of  phrases  which  had  "influenced"  them,  but 
which  they  had  not  quite  understood ;  critics  applied  to 
her  to  verify  some  doubtful  citation  or  to  decide  some 
disputed  point  in  chronology;  and  the  great  tide  of 
thought  and  investigation  kept  up  a  continuous  mur 
mur  on  the  quiet  shores  of  her  life. 

An  explorer  of  another  kind  disembarked  there  one 
day  in  the  shape  of  a  young  man  to  whom  Paulina  was 
primarily  a  kissable  girl,  with  an  after-thought  in  the 
shape  of  a  grandfather.  From  the  outset  it  had  been 
impossible  to  fix  Hewlett  Winsloe's  attention  on  Dr. 
Anson.  The  young  man  behaved  with  the  innocent 
[42] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

profanity  of  infants  sporting  on  a  tomb.  His  excuse  was 
that  he  came  from  New  York,  a  Cimmerian  outskirt 
which  survived  in  Paulina's  geography  only  because 
Dr.  Anson  had  gone  there  once  or  twice  to  lecture. 
The  curious  thing  was  that  she  should  have  thought  it 
worth  while  to  find  excuses  for  young  Winsloe.  The 
fact  that  she  did  so  had  not  escaped  the  attention  of 
the  village ;  but  people,  after  a  gasp  of  awe,  said  it  was 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  a  girl  like 
Paulina  Anson  should  think  of  marrying.  It  would  cer 
tainly  seem  a  little  odd  to  see  a  man  in  the  House,  but 
young  Winsloe  would  of  course  understand  that  the 
Doctor's  books  were  not  to  be  disturbed,  and  that  he 
must  go  down  to  the  orchard  to  smoke — .  The  village 
had  barely  framed  this  modus  Vivendi  when  it  was  con 
vulsed  by  the  announcement  that  young  Winsloe  de 
clined  to  live  in  the  House  on  any  terms.  Hang  going 
down  to  the  orchard  to  smoke!  He  meant  to  take  his 
wife  to  New  York.  The  village  drew  its  breath  and 
watched. 

Did  Persephone,  snatched  from  the  warm  fields  of 
Enna,  peer  half-consentingly  down  the  abyss  that 
opened  at  her  feet?  Paulina,  it  must  be  owned,  hung 
a  moment  over  the  black  gulf  of  temptation.  She  would 
have  found  it  easy  to  cope  with  a  deliberate  disregard 
of  her  grandfather's  rights ;  but  young  Winsloe's  un 
consciousness  of  that  shadowy  claim  was  as  much  a 
[43] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

natural  function  as  the  falling  of  leaves  on  a  grave.  His 
love  was  an  embodiment  of  the  perpetual  renewal 
which  to  some  tender  spirits  seems  a  crueller  process 
than  decay. 

On  women  of  Paulina's  mould  this  piety  toward  im 
plicit  demands,  toward  the  ghosts  of  dead  duties  walk 
ing  unappeased  among  usurping  passions,  has  a  stronger 
hold  than  any  tangible  bond.  People  said  that  she  gave 
up  young  Winsloe  because  her  aunts  disapproved  of  her 
leaving  them ;  but  such  disapproval  as  reached  her  was 
an  emanation  from  the  walls  of  the  House,  from  the 
bare  desk,  the  faded  portraits,  the  dozen  yellowing 
tomes  that  no  hand  but  hers  ever  lifted  from  the  shelf. 

II 

A'TER  that  the  House  possessed  her.  As  if  con 
scious  of  its  victory,  it  imposed  a  conqueror's 
claims.  It  had  once  been  suggested  that  she  should 
write  a  life  of  her  grandfather,  and  the  task  from 
which  she  had  shrunk  as  from  a  too-oppressive  privi 
lege  now  shaped  itself  into  a  justification  of  her  course. 
In  a  burst  of  filial  pantheism  she  tried  to  lose  herself  in 
the  vast  ancestral  consciousness.  Her  one  refuge  from 
scepticism  was  a  blind  faith  in  the  magnitude  and  the 
endurance  of  the  idea  to  which  she  had  sacrificed  her 
life,  and  with  a  passionate  instinct  of  self-preservation 
she  labored  to  fortify  her  position. 
[44] 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

The  preparations  for  the  Life  led  her  through  by 
ways  that  the  most  scrupulous  of  the  previous  biog 
raphers  had  left  unexplored.  She  accumulated  her 
material  with  a  blind  animal  patience  unconscious  of 
fortuitous  risks.  The  years  stretched  before  her  like 
some  vast  blank  page  spread  out  to  receive  the  record 
of  her  toil;  and  she  had  a  mystic  conviction  that  she 
would  not  die  till  her  work  was  accomplished. 

The  aunts,  sustained  by  no  such  high  purpose,  with 
drew  in  turn  to  their  respective  divisions  of  the  Anson 
"plot/'  and  Paulina  remained  alone  with  her  task.  She 
was  forty  wrhen  the  book  was  completed.  She  had  trav 
elled  little  in  her  life,  and  it  had  become  more  and 
more  difficult  to  her  to  leave  the  House  even  for  a  day ; 
but  the  dread  of  entrusting  her  document  to  a  strange 
hand  made  her  decide  to  carry  it  herself  to  the  pub 
lisher.  On  the  way  to  Boston  she  had  a  sudden  vision 
of  the  loneliness  to  which  this  last  parting  condemned 
her.  All  her  youth,  all  her  dreams,  all  her  renunciations 
lay  in  that  neat  bundle  on  her  knee.  It  was  not  so  much 
her  grandfather's  life  as  her  own  that  she  had  written; 
and  the  knowledge  that  it  would  come  back  to  her  in 
all  the  glorification  of  print  was  of  no  more  help  than, 
to  a  mother's  grief,  the  assurance  that  the  lad  she  must 
part  with  will  return  with  epaulets. 

She  had  naturally  addressed  herself  to  the  firm  which 
had  published  her  grandfather's  works.  Its  founder,  a 
[45] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

personal  friend  of  the  philosopher's,  had  survived  the 
Olympian  group  of  which  he  had  been  a  subordinate 
member,  long  enough  to  bestow  his  octogenarian  ap 
proval  on  Paulina's  pious  undertaking.  But  he  had  died 
soon  afterward;  and  Miss  Anson  found  herself  con 
fronted  by  his  grandson,  a  person  with  a  brisk  commer 
cial  view  of  his  trade,  who  was  said  to  have  put  "new 
blood"  into  the  firm. 

This  gentleman  listened  attentively,  fingering  her 
manuscript  as  though  literature  were  a  tactile  sub 
stance  ;  then,  with  a  confidential  twist  of  his  revolving 
chair,  he  emitted  the  verdict:  "We  ought  to  have  had 
this  ten  years  sooner." 

Miss  Anson  took  the  words  as  an  allusion  to  the  re 
pressed  avidity  of  her  readers.  "It  has  been  a  long 
time  for  the  public  to  wait,"  she  solemnly  assented. 

The  publisher  smiled.  "They  haven't  waited,"  he 
said. 

She  looked  at  him  strangely.  "Haven't  waited?" 

"No — they've  gone  off;  taken  another  train.  Lit 
erature's  like  a  big  railway-station  now,  you  know: 
there  's  a  train  starting  every  minute.  People  are  not 
going  to  hang  round  the  waiting-room.  If  they  can't 
get  to  a  place  when  they  want  to  they  go  somewhere 
else." 

The  application  of  this  parable  cost  Miss  Anson  sev 
eral  minutes  of  throbbing  silence.  At  length  she  said: 
[46] 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

"Then  I  am  to  understand  that  the  public  is  no  longer 
interested  in — in  my  grandfather?"  She  felt  as  though 
heaven  must  blast  the  lips  that  risked  such  a  conjecture. 

"Well,  it's  this  way.  He's  a  name  still,  of  course. 
People  don't  exactly  want  to  be  caught  not  knowing 
who  he  is;  but  they  don't  want  to  spend  two  dollars 
finding  out,  when  they  can  look  him  up  for  nothing 
in  any  biographical  dictionary." 

Miss  Anson's  world  reeled.  She  felt  herself  adrift 
among  mysterious  forces,  and  no  more  thought  of  pro 
longing  the  discussion  than  of  opposing  an  earthquake 
with  argument.  She  went  home  carrying  the  manu 
script  like  a  wounded  thing.  On  the  return  journey  she 
found  herself  travelling  straight  toward  a  fact  that  had 
lurked  for  months  in  the  background  of  her  life,  and 
that  now  seemed  to  await  her  on  the  very  threshold: 
the  fact  that  fewer  visitors  came  to  the  House.  She 
owned  to  herself  that  for  the  last  four  or  five  years 
the  number  had  steadily  diminished.  Engrossed  in  her 
work,  she  had  noted  the  change  only  to  feel  thankful 
that  she  had  fewer  interruptions.  There  had  been  a 
time  when,  at  the  travelling  season,  the  bell  rang 
continuously,  and  the  ladies  of  the  House  lived  in  a 
chronic  state  of  "best  silks"  and  expectancy.  It  would 
have  been  impossible  then  to  carry  on  any  consecutive 
work;  and  she  now  saw  that  the  silence  which  had 
gathered  round  her  task  had  been  the  hush  of  death. 
[47] 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

Not  of  his  death!  The  very  walls  cried  out  against 
the  implication.  It  was  the  world's  enthusiasm,  the 
world's  faith,  the  world's  loyalty  that  had  died.  A  cor 
rupt  generation  that  had  turned  aside  to  worship  the 
brazen  serpent.  Her  heart  yearned  with  a  prophetic 
passion  over  the  lost  sheep  straying  in  the  wilderness. 
But  all  great  glories  had  their  interlunar  period;  and 
in  due  time  her  grandfather  would  once  more  flash 
full-orbed  upon  a  darkling  world. 

The  few  friends  to  whom  she  confided  her  adventure 
reminded  her  with  tender  indignation  that  there  were 
other  publishers  less  subject  to  the  fluctuations  of  the 
market;  but  much  as  she  had  braved  for  her  grand 
father  she  could  not  again  brave  that  particular  pro 
bation.  She  found  herself,  in  fact,  incapable  of  any 
immediate  effort.  She  had  lost  her  way  in  a  labyrinth 
of  conjecture  where  her  worst  dread  was  that  she 
might  put  her  hand  upon  the  clue. 

She  locked  up  the  manuscript  and  sat  down  to  wait. 
If  a  pilgrim  had  come  just  then  the  priestess  would 
have  fallen  on  his  neck;  but  she  continued  to  cele 
brate  her  rites  alone.  It  was  a  double  solitude;  for 
she  had  always  thought  a  great  deal  more  of  the  peo 
ple  who  came  to  see  the  House  than  of  the  people 
who  came  to  see  her.  She  fancied  that  the  neighbors 
kept  a  keen  eye  on  the  path  to  the  House;  and  there 
were  days  when  the  figure  of  a  stranger  strolling  past 

r « i 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

the  gate  seemed  to  focus  upon  her  the  scorching  sym 
pathies  of  the  village.  For  a  time  she  thought  of  trav 
elling;  of  going  to  Europe,  or  even  to  Boston;  but  to 
leave  the  House  now  would  have  seemed  like  desert 
ing  her  post.  Gradually  her  scattered  energies  centred 
themselves  in  the  fierce  resolve  to  understand  what 
had  happened.  She  was  not  the  woman  to  live  long 
in  an  unmapped  country  or  to  accept  as  final  her  pri 
vate  interpretation  of  phenomena.  Like  a  traveller  in 
unfamiliar  regions  she  began  to  store  for  future  guid 
ance  the  minutest  natural  signs.  Unflinchingly  she 
noted  the  accumulating  symptoms  of  indifference  that 
marked  her  grandfather's  descent  toward  posteritye 
She  passed  from  the  heights  on  which  he  had  been 
grouped  with  the  sages  of  his  day  to  the  lower  level 
where  he  had  come  to  be  fi  the  friend  of  Emerson," 
"the  correspondent  of  Hawthorne,"  or  (later  still)  "the 
Dr.  Anson"  mentioned  in  their  letters.  The  change 
had  taken  place  as  slowly  and  imperceptibly  as  a  na 
tural  process.  She  could  not  say  that  any  ruthless 
hand  had  stripped  the  leaves  from  the  tree:  it  was 
simply  that,  among  the  evergreen  glories  of  his  group, 
her  grandfather's  had  proved  deciduous. 

She  had  still  to  ask  herself  why.  If  the  decay  had 

been  a  natural  process,  was  it  not  the  very  pledge  of 

renewal?  It  was  easier  to  find  such  arguments  than  to 

be  convinced  by  them.  Again  and  again  she  tried  to 

[49] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

drug  her  solicitude  with  analogies;  but  at  last  she  saw 
that  such  expedients  were  but  the  expression  of  a 
growing  incredulity.  The  best  way  of  proving  her  faith 
in  her  grandfather  was  not  to  be  afraid  of  his  critics. 
She  had  no  notion  where  these  shadowy  antagonists 
lurked;  for  she  had  never  heard  of  the  great  man's  doc 
trine  being  directly  combated.  Oblique  assaults  there 
must  have  been,  however,  Parthian  shots  at  the  giant 
that  none  dared  face;  and  she  thirsted  to  close  with 
such  assailants.  The  difficulty  was  to  find  them.  She 
began  by  re-reading  the  Works;  thence  she  passed  to 
the  writers  of  the  same  school,  those  whose  rhetoric 
bloomed  perennial  in  First  Readers  from  which  her 
grandfather's  prose  had  long  since  faded.  Amid  that 
clamor  of  far-off  enthusiasms  she  detected  no  contro 
versial  note.  The  little  knot  of  Olympians  held  their 
views  in  common  with  an  early-Christian  promiscuity. 
They  were  continually  proclaiming  their  admiration  for 
each  other,  the  public  joining  as  chorus  in  this  guile 
less  antiphon  of  praise ;  and  she  discovered  no  traitor  in 
their  midst. 

What  then  had  happened?  Was  it  simply  that  the 
main  current  of  thought  had  set  another  way?  Then 
why  did  the  others  survive?  Why  were  they  still 
marked  down  as  tributaries  to  the  philosophic  stream  ? 
This  question  carried  her  still  farther  afield,  and  she 
pressed  on  with  the  passion  of  a  champion  whose  re- 
[50] 


THE     ANGEL    AT     THE     GRAVE 

luctance  to  know  the  worst  might  be  construed  into  a 
doubt  of  his  cause.  At  length — slowly  but  inevitably 
— an  explanation  shaped  itself.  Death  had  overtaken 
the  doctrines  about  which  her  grandfather  had  draped 
his  cloudy  rhetoric.  They  had  disintegrated  and  been 
re-absorbed,  adding  their  little  pile  to  the  dust  drifted 
about  the  mute  lips  of  the  Sphinx.  The  great  man's 
contemporaries  had  survived  not  by  reason  of  what 
they  taught,  but  of  what  they  were ;  and  he,  who  had 
been  the  mere  mask  through  which  they  mouthed 
their  lesson,  the  instrument  on  which  their  tune  was 
played,  lay  buried  deep  among  the  obsolete  tools  of 
thought. 

The  discovery  came  to  Paulina  suddenly.  She  looked 
up  one  evening  from  her  reading  and  it  stood  before 
her  like  a  ghost.  It  had  entered  her  life  with  stealthy 
steps,  creeping  close  before  she  was  aware  of  it.  She 
sat  in  the  library,  among  the  carefully-tended  books 
and  portraits;  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
walled  alive  into  a  tomb  hung  with  the  effigies  of  dead 
ideas.  She  felt  a  desperate  longing  to  escape  into  the 
outer  air,  where  people  toiled  and  loved,  and  living 
sympathies  went  hand  in  hand.  It  was  the  sense  of 
wasted  labor  that  oppressed  her;  of  two  lives  consumed 
in  that  ruthless  process  that  uses  generations  of  effort 
to  build  a  single  cell.  There  was  a  dreary  parallel  be 
tween  her  grandfather's  fruitless  toil  and  her  own  un- 
[51] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE    GRAVE 

profitable  sacrifice.  Each  in  turn  had  kept  vigil  by  a 
corpse. 

Ill 

THE  bell  rang — she  remembered  it  afterward  — 
with  a  loud  thrilling  note.  It  was  what  they  used 
to  call  the  " visitor's  ring";  not  the  tentative  tinkle  of 
a  neighbor  dropping  in  to  borrow  a  sauce-pan  or  dis 
cuss  parochial  incidents,  but  a  decisive  summons  from 
the  outer  world. 

Miss  Anson  put  down  her  knitting  and  listened.  She 
sat  up-stairs  now,  making  her  rheumatism  an  excuse  for 
avoiding  the  rooms  below.  Her  interests  had  insensibly 
adjusted  themselves  to  the  perspective  of  her  neigh 
bors'  lives,  and  she  wondered — as  the  bell  re-echoed — 
if  it  could  mean  that  Mrs.  Heminway's  baby  had  come. 
Conjecture  had  time  to  ripen  into  certainty,  and  she 
was  limping  toward  the  closet  where  her  cloak  and 
bonnet  hung,  when  her  little  maid  fluttered  in  with 
the  announcement:  "A  gentleman  to  see  the  house." 

"The  House?" 

"Yes,  m'm.  I  don't  know  what  he  means,"  faltered 
the  messenger,  whose  memory  did  not  embrace  the 
period  when  such  announcements  were  a  daily  part  of 
the  domestic  routine. 

Miss  Anson  glanced  at  the  proffered  card.  The  name 
it  bore — Mr.  George  Corby — was  unknown  to  her,  but 
[52] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE    GRAVE 

the  blood  rose  to  her  languid  cheek.  "Hand  me  my 
Mechlin  cap,  Katy,"  she  said,  trembling  a  little,  as  she 
laid  aside  her  walking  stick.  She  put  her  cap  on  before 
the  mirror,  with  rapid  unsteady  touches.  "Did  you 
draw  up  the  library  blinds?"  she  breathlessly  asked. 

She  had  gradually  built  up  a  wall  of  commonplace 
between  herself  and  her  illusions,  but  at  the  first  sum 
mons  of  the  past  filial  passion  swept  away  the  frail 
barriers  of  expediency. 

She  walked  down-stairs  so  hurriedly  that  her  stick 
clicked  like  a  girlish  heel;  but  in  the  hall  she  paused, 
wondering  nervously  if  Katy  had  put  a  match  to  the 
fire.  The  autumn  air  was  cold  and  she  had  the  reproach 
ful  vision  of  a  visitor  with  elderly  ailments  shivering 
by  her  inhospitable  hearth.  She  thought  instinctively 
of  the  stranger  as  a  survivor  of  the  days  when  such  a 
visit  was  a  part  of  the  young  enthusiast's  itinerary. 

The  fire  was  unlit  and  the  room  forbiddingly  cold; 
but  the  figure  which,  as  Miss  Anson  entered,  turned 
from  a  lingering  scrutiny  of  the  book-shelves,  was  that 
of  a  fresh-eyed  sanguine  youth  clearly  independent  of 
any  artificial  caloric.  She  stood  still  a  moment,  feeling 
herself  the  victim  of  some  anterior  impression  that 
made  this  robust  presence  an  insubstantial  thing;  but 
the  young  man  advanced  with  an  air  of  genial  assur 
ance  which  rendered  him  at  once  more  real  and  more 
reminiscent. 

[53] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

"Why  this,  you  know,"  he  exclaimed,  "is  simply 
immense!" 

The  words,  which  did  not  immediately  present  them 
selves  as  slang  to  Miss  Anson's  unaccustomed  ear, 
echoed  with  an  odd  familiarity  through  the  academic 
silence. 

"The  room,  you  know,  I  mean,"  he  explained  with  a 
comprehensive  gesture.  "These  jolly  portraits,  and  the 
books — that 's  the  old  gentleman  himself  over  the  man 
telpiece,  I  suppose? — and  the  elms  outside,  and — and 
the  whole  business.  I  do  like  a  congruous  background 
— don't  you?" 

His  hostess  was  silent.  No  one  but  Hewlett  Winsloe 
had  ever  spoken  of  her  grandfather  as  "the  old  gentle 
man." 

"It's  a  hundred  times  better  than  I  could  have 
hoped,"  her  visitor  continued,  with  a  cheerful  disregard 
of  her  silence.  "The  seclusion,  the  remoteness,  the 
philosophic  atmosphere — there's  so  little  of  that  kind 
of  flavor  left!  I  should  have  simply  hated  to  find  that 
he  lived  over  a  grocery,  you  know.  —  I  had  the  deuce 
of  a  time  finding  out  where  he  did  live,"  he  began 
again,  after  another  glance  of  parenthetical  enjoyment. 
"But  finally  I  got  on  the  trail  through  some  old  book 
on  Brook  Farm.  I  was  bound  I  'd  get  the  environment 
right  before  I  did  my  article." 

Miss  Anson,  by  this  time,  had  recovered  sufficient 
[54] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

self-possession    to   seat   herself  and  assign  a    chair   to 
her  visitor. 

"Do  I  understand/'  she  asked  slowly,  following  his 
rapid  eye  about  the  room,  "that  you  intend  to  write 
an  article  about  my  grandfather?" 

"That 's  what  I  'm  here  for/'  Mr.  Corby  genially 
responded;  "that  is,  if  you 're  willing  to  help  me;  for 
I  can't  get  on  without  your  help/'  he  added  with  a 
confident  smile. 

There  was  another  pause,  during  which  Miss  Anson 
noticed  a  fleck  of  dust  on  the  faded  leather  of  the 
writing-table  and  a  fresh  spot  of  discoloration  in  the 
right-hand  upper  corner  of  Raphael  Morghen's  "Par 
nassus." 

"Then  you  believe  in  him?"  she  said,  looking  up. 
She  could  not  tell  what  had  prompted  her;  the  words 
rushed  out  irresistibly. 

"Believe  in  him?"  Corby  cried,  springing  to  his  feet. 
"Believe  in  Orestes  Anson?  Why,  I  believe  he's  sim 
ply  the  greatest — the  most  stupendous — the  most 
phenomenal  figure  we've  got!" 

The  color  rose  to  Miss  Anson's  brow.  Her  heart  was 
beating  passionately.  She  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
young  man's  face,  as  though  it  might  vanish  if  she 
looked  away. 

"You — you  mean  to  say  this  in  your  article?"  she 
asked. 

[55] 


THE     ANGEL     AT     THE     GRAVE 

"Say  it?  Why,  the  facts  will  say  it,"  he  exulted. 
"The  baldest  kind  of  a  statement  would  make  it  clear. 
When  a  man  is  as  big  as  that  he  does  n't  need  a  pedes 
tal!" 

Miss  Anson  sighed.  "  People  used  to  say  that  when 
I  was  young/'  she  murmured.  "But  now — " 

Her  visitor  stared.  "When  you  were  young?  But  how 
did  they  know — when  the  thing  hung  fire  as  it  did? 
When  the  whole  edition  was  thrown  back  on  his  hands?" 

"The  whole  edition — what  edition?"  It  was  Miss 
Anson's  turn  to  stare. 

"Why,  of  his  pamphlet — the  pamphlet — the  one 
thing  that  counts,  that  survives,  that  makes  him  what 
he  is!  For  heaven's  sake,"  he  tragically  adjured  her, 
"don't  tell  me  there  isn't  a  copy  of  it  left!" 

Miss  Anson  was  trembling  slightly.  "I  don't  think  I 
understand  what  you  mean,"  she  faltered,  less  bewil 
dered  by  his  vehemence  than  by  the  strange  sense  of 
coming  on  an  unexplored  region  in  the  very  heart  of 
her  dominion. 

"Why,  his  account  of  the  amphioxus,  of  course!  You 
can't  mean  that  his  family  didn't  know  about  it — that 
you  don't  know  about  it?  I  came  across  it  by  the  mer 
est  accident  myself,  in  a  letter  of  vindication  that  he 
wrote  in  1830  to  an  old  scientific  paper;  but  I  under 
stood  there  were  journals  —  early  journals;  there  must 
be  references  to  it  somewhere  in  the  'twenties.  He 
[56] 


THE     ANGEL     AT    THE     GRAVE 

must  have  been  at  least  ten  or  twelve  years  ahead  of 
Yarrell;  and  he  saw  the  whole  significance  of  it,  too  — 
he  saw  where  it  led  to.  As  I  understand  it,  he  act 
ually  anticipated  in  his  pamphlet  Saint  Hilaire's  theory 
of  the  universal  type,  and  supported  the  hypothesis  by 
describing  the  notochord  of  the  amphioxus  as  a  carti 
laginous  vertebral  column.  The  specialists  of  the  day 
jeered  at  him,  of  course,  as  the  specialists  in  Goethe's 
time  jeered  at  the  plant-metamorphosis.  As  far  as  I 
can  make  out,  the  anatomists  and  zoologists  were  down 
on  Dr.  Anson  to  a  man;  that  was  why  his  cowardly 
publishers  went  back  on  their  bargain.  But  the  pam 
phlet  must  be  here  somewhere  —  he  writes  as  though, 
in  his  first  disappointment,  he  had  destroyed  the  whole 
edition;  but  surely  there  must  be  at  least  one  copy 
left?" 

His  scientific  jargon  was  as  bewildering  as  his  slang; 
and  there  were  even  moments  in  his  discourse  when 
Miss  Anson  ceased  to  distinguish  between  them;  but 
the  suspense  with  which  he  continued  to  gaze  on  her 
acted  as  a  challenge  to  her  scattered  thoughts. 

"The  amphioxus,"  she  murmured,  half-rising.  "It's 
an  animal,  isn't  it — a  fish?  Yes,  I  think  I  remember." 
She  sank  back  with  the  inward  look  of  one  who  re 
traces  some  lost  line  of  association. 

Gradually  the   distance   cleared,  the  details   started 
into  life.   In  her  researches  for  the  biography  she  had 
[57  ] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

patiently  followed  every  ramification  of  her  subject, 
and  one  of  these  overgrown  paths  now  led  her  back 
to  the  episode  in  question.  The  great  Orestes' s  title 
of  "Doctor"  had  in  fact  not  been  merely  the  sponta 
neous  tribute  of  a  national  admiration;  he  had  actually 
studied  medicine  in  his  youth,  and  his  diaries,  as  his 
granddaughter  now  recalled,  showed  that  he  had  passed 
through  a  brief  phase  of  anatomical  ardor  before  his 
attention  was  diverted  to  super-sensual  problems.  It 
had  indeed  seemed  to  Paulina,  as  she  scanned  those 
early  pages,  that  they  revealed  a  spontaneity,  a  fresh 
ness  of  feeling  somehow  absent  from  his  later  lucubra 
tions — as  though  this  one  emotion  had  reached  him 
directly,  the  others  through  some  intervening  medium. 
In  the  excess  of  her  commemorative  zeal  she  had  even 
struggled  through  the  unintelligible  pamphlet  to  which 
a  few  lines  in  the  journal  had  bitterly  directed  her. 
But  the  subject  and  the  phraseology  were  alien  to  her 
and  unconnected  with  her  conception  of  the  great 
man's  genius;  and  after  a  hurried  perusal  she  had 
averted  her  thoughts  from  the  episode  as  from  a  reve 
lation  of  failure.  At  length  she  rose  a  little  unsteadily, 
supporting  herself  against  the  writing-table.  She  looked 
hesitatingly  about  the  room ;  then  she  drew  a  key  from 
her  old-fashioned  reticule  and  unlocked  a  drawer  be 
neath  one  of  the  book-cases.  Young  Corby  watched  her 
breathlessly.  With  a  tremulous  hand  she  turned  over 
[58] 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

the  dusty  documents  that  seemed  to  fill  the  drawer. 
"Is  this  it?"  she  said,  holding  out  a  thin  discolored 
volume. 

He  seized  it  with  a  gasp.  "Oh,  by  George/'  he  said, 
dropping  into  the  nearest  chair. 

She  stood  observing  him  strangely  as  his  eye  de 
voured  the  mouldy  pages. 

"Is  this  the  only  copy  left?"  he  asked  at  length, 
looking  up  for  a  moment  as  a  thirsty  man  lifts  his  head 
from  his  glass. 

"I  think  it  must  be.  I  found  it  long  ago,  among 
some  old  papers  that  my  aunts  were  burning  up  after 
my  grandmother's  death.  They  said  it  was  of  no  use — 
that  he'd  always  meant  to  destroy  the  whole  edition 
and  that  I  ought  to  respect  his  wishes.  But  it  was 
something  he  had  written ;  to  burn  it  was  like  shutting 
the  door  against  his  voice — against  something  he  had 
once  wished  to  say,  and  that  nobody  had  listened  to. 
I  wanted  him  to  feel  that  I  was  always  here,  ready 
to  listen,  even  when  others  hadn't  thought  it  worth 
while;  and  so  I  kept  the  pamphlet,  meaning  to  carry 
out  his  wish  and  destroy  it  before  my  death." 

Her  visitor  gave  a  groan  of  retrospective  anguish. 
"And  but  for  me — but  for  to-day — you  would  have?" 

"I  should  have  thought  it  my  duty." 

"Oh,  by  George— by  George,"  he  repeated,  subdued 
afresh  by  the  inadequacy  of  speech. 


THE    ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

She  continued  to  watch  him  in  silence.  At  length 
he  jumped  up  and  impulsively  caught  her  by  both 
hands. 

"He's  bigger  and  bigger!"  he  almost  shouted.  "He 
simply  leads  the  field!  You'll  help  me  go  to  the  bottom 
of  this,  won't  you?  We  must  turn  out  all  the  papers — 
letters,  journals,  memoranda.  He  must  have  made  notes. 
He  must  have  left  some  record  of  what  led  up  to  this. 
We  must  leave  nothing  unexplored.  By  Jove,"  he  cried, 
looking  up  at  her  with  his  bright  convincing  smile, 
" do  you  know  you  're  the  granddaughter  of  a  Great 
Man?" 

Her  color  flickered  like  a  girl's.  "Are  you — sure  of 
him?"  she  whispered,  as  though  putting  him  on  his 
guard  against  a  possible  betrayal  of  trust. 

"Sure!  Sure!  My  dear  lady—  '  he  measured  her 
again  with  his  quick  confident  glance.  "Don't  you  be 
lieve  in  him?" 

She  drew  back  with  a  confused  murmur.  "I — used 
to."  She  had  left  her  hands  in  his:  their  pressure  seemed 
to  send  a  warm  current  to  her  heart.  "It  ruined  my 
life!"  she  cried  with  sudden  passion.  He  looked  at  her 
perplexedly. 

"I   gave  up   everything,"   she  went  on  wildly,  "to 

keep  him  alive.  I  sacrificed  myself — others  —  I  nursed 

his  glory  in  my  bosom  and  it  died — and  left  me — left 

me  here  alone."  She  paused  and  gathered  her  courage 

[60] 


THE     ANGEL    AT    THE     GRAVE 

with  a  gasp.  "Don't  make  the  same  mistake!"  she 
warned  him. 

He  shook  his  head,  still  smiling.  "No  danger  of  that! 
You  're  not  alone,  my  dear  lady.  He  's  here  with  you — 
he's  come  back  to  you  to-day.  Don't  you  see  what's 
happened?  Don't  you  see  that  it's  your  love  that  has 
kept  him  alive?  If  you'd  abandoned  your  post  for  an 
instant — let  things  pass  into  other  hands  —  if  your  won 
derful  tenderness  hadn't  perpetually  kept  guard — this 
might  have  been — must  have  been — irretrievably  lost." 
He  laid  his  hand  on  the  pamphlet  "And  then — then 
he  would  have  been  dead!" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "don't  tell  me  too  suddenly!"  And 
she  turned  away  and  sank  into  a  chair. 

The  young  man  stood  watching  her  in  an  awed  si 
lence.  For  a  long  time  she  sat  motionless,  with  her  face 
hidden,  and  he  thought  she  must  be  weeping. 

At  length  he  said,  almost  shyly:  "You'll  let  me  come 
back,  then?  You'll  help  me  work  this  thing  out?" 

She  rose  calmly  and  held  out  her  hand.  "I'll  help 
you,"  she  declared. 

"  I  '11  come  to-morrow,  then.  Can  we  get  to  work 
early?" 

"As  early  as  you  please." 

"At  eight  o'clock,  then,"  he  said  briskly.  "You  '11 
have  the  papers  ready?" 

"I'll  have  everything  ready."  She  added  with  a 
[61  ] 


THE     ANGEL    AT     THE     GRAVE 

half-playful  hesitancy:  "And  the  fire   shall  be  lit  for 
you." 

He  went  out  with  his  bright  nod.  She  walked  to  the 
window  and  watched  his  buoyant  figure  hastening  down 
the  elm-shaded  street.  When  she  turned  back  into  the 
empty  room  she  looked  as  though  youth  had  touched 
her  on  the  lips. 


[62] 


THE     RECOVERY 


THE    RECOVERY 

TO  the  visiting  stranger  Hillbridge's  first 
tion  was,  "Have  you  seen  Keniston's  things?" 
Keniston  took   precedence  of  the   colonial 
State  House,  the  Gilbert  Stuart  Washington  and  the 
Ethnological  Museum;  nay,  he  ran  neck  and  neck  with 
the  President  of  the  University,  a  prehistoric  relic  who 
had  known  Emerson,  and  who  was  still  sent  about  the 
country  in  cotton-wool  to  open  educational  institutions 
with  a  toothless  oration  on  Brook  Farm. 

Keniston  was  sent  about  the  country  too:  he  opened 
art  exhibitions,  laid  the  foundation  of  academies,  and 
acted  in  a  general  sense  as  the  spokesman  and  apolo 
gist  of  art.  Hillbridge  was  proud  of  him  in  his  peripa 
tetic  character,  but  his  fellow-townsmen  let  it  be  un 
derstood  that  to  "know"  Keniston  one  must  come  to 
Hillbridge.  Never  was  work  more  dependent  for  its  ef 
fect  on  "atmosphere,"  on  milieu.  Hillbridge  was  Kenis 
ton's  milieu,  and  there  was  one  lady,  a  devotee  of  his  art, 
who  went  so  far  as  to  assert  that  once,  at  an  exhibition 
in  New  York,  she  had  passed  a  Keniston  without  rec 
ognizing  it.  "It  simply  didn't  want  to  be  seen  in  such 
surroundings;  it  was  hiding  itself  under  an  incognito," 
she  declared. 

It  was  a  source  of  special  pride  to  Hillbridge  that  it 
[65] 


THE     RECOVERY 

contained  all  the  artist's  best  works,  Strangers  were 
told  that  Hillbridge  had  discovered  him.  The  discovery 
had  come  about  in  the  simplest  manner.  Professor 
Driffert,  who  had  a  reputation  for  "collecting,"  had  one 
day  hung  a  sketch  on  his  drawing-room  wall,  and 
thereafter  Mrs.  Driffert's  visitors  (always  a  little  flurried 
by  the  sense  that  it  was  the  kind  of  house  in  which  one 
might  be  suddenly  called  upon  to  distinguish  between 
a  dry-point  and  an  etching,  or  between  Raphael  Mengs 
and  Raphael  Sanzio)  were  not  infrequently  subjected  to 
the  Professor's  off-hand  inquiry,  "By-the-way,  have  you 
seen  my  Keniston?"  The  visitors,  perceptibly  awed, 
would  retreat  to  a  critical  distance  and  murmur  the 
usual  guarded  generalities,  while  they  tried  to  keep 
the  name  in  mind  long  enough  to  look  it  up  in  the 
Encyclopaedia.  The  name  was  not  in  the  Encyclopaedia; 
but,  as  a  compensating  fact,  it  became  known  that  the 
man  himself  was  in  Hillbridge.  Hillbridge,  then,  owned 
an  artist  whose  celebrity  it  was  the  proper  thing  to 
take  for  granted!  Some  one  else,  emboldened  by  the 
thought,  bought  a  Keniston ;  and  the  next  year,  on  the 
occasion  of  the  President's  golden  jubilee,  the  Faculty, 
by  unanimous  consent,  presented  him  with  a  Keniston. 
Two  years  later  there  was  a  Keniston  exhibition,  to 
which  the  art-critics  came  from  New  York  and  Boston; 
and  not  long  afterward  a  well-known  Chicago  collector 
vainly  attempted  to  buy  Professor  Driffert's  sketch, 
[66] 


THE     RECOVERY 

which  the  art  journals  cited  as  a  rare  example  of  the 
painter's  first  or  silvery  manner.  Thus  there  gradually 
grew  up  a  small  circle  of  connoisseurs  known  in  artis 
tic  circles  as  men  who  collected  Kenistons. 

Professor  Wildmarsh,  of  the  chair  of  Fine  Arts  and 
Archaeology,  was  the  first  critic  to  publish  a  detailed 
analysis  of  the  master's  methods  and  purpose.  The  arti 
cle  was  illustrated  by  engravings  which  (though  they 
had  cost  the  magazine  a  fortune)  were  declared  by  Pro 
fessor  Wildmarsh  to  give  but  an  imperfect  suggestion 
of  the  esoteric  significance  of  the  originals.  The  Profes 
sor,  with  a  tact  that  contrived  to  make  each  reader  feel 
himself  included  among  the  exceptions,  went  on  to  say 
that  Keniston's  work  would  never  appeal  to  any  but 
exceptional  natures ;  and  he  closed  with  the  usual  asser 
tion  that  to  apprehend  the  full  meaning  of  the  master's 
"message"  it  was  necessary  to  see  him  in  the  surround 
ings  of  his  own  home  at  Hillbridge. 

Professor  Wildmarsh' s  article  was  read  one  spring 
afternoon  by  a  young  lady  just  speeding  eastward  on 
her  first  visit  to  Hillbridge,  and  already  flushed  with 
anticipation  of  the  intellectual  opportunities  awaiting 
her.  In  East  Onondaigua,  where  she  lived,  Hillbridge 
was  looked  on  as  an  Oxford.  Magazine  writers,  with 
the  easy  American  use  of  the  superlative,  designated 
it  as  "the  venerable  Alma  Mater,"  the  "antique  seat 
of  learning,"  and  Claudia  Day  had  been  brought  up  to 
[67] 


THE    RECOVERY 

regard  it  as  the  fountain-head  of  knowledge,  and  of 
that  mental  distinction  which  is  so  much  rarer  than 
knowledge.  An  innate  passion  for  all  that  was  thus 
distinguished  and  exceptional  made  her  revere  Hill- 
bridge  as  the  native  soil  of  those  intellectual  amenities 
that  were  of  such  difficult  growth  in  the  thin  air  of 
East  Onondaigua.  At  the  first  suggestion  of  a  visit  to 
Hillbridge — whither  she  went  at  the  invitation  of  a 
girl  friend  who  (incredible  apotheosis!)  had  married 
one  of  the  University  professors — Claudia's  spirit  di 
lated  with  the  sense  of  new  possibilities.  The  vision  of 
herself  walking  under  the  "historic  elms"  toward  the 
Memorial  Library,  standing  rapt  before  the  Stuart 
Washington,  or  drinking  in,  from  some  obscure  corner 
of  an  academic  drawing-room,  the  President's  reminis 
cences  of  the  Concord  group — this  vividness  of  self- 
projection  into  the  emotions  awaiting  her  made  her 
glad  of  any  delay  that  prolonged  so  exquisite  a  mo 
ment. 

It  was  in  this  mood  that  she  opened  the  article  on 
Keniston.  She  knew  about  him,  of  course;  she  was 
wonderfully  "well  up,"  even  for  East  Onondaigua. 
She  had  read  of  him  in  the  magazines;  she  had  met, 
on  a  visit  to  New  York,  a  man  who  collected  Kenis- 
tons,  and  a  photogravure  of  a  Keniston  in  an  "artistic" 
frame  hung  above  her  writing-table  at  home.  But  Pro 
fessor  Wildmarsh's.  article  made  her  feel  how  little  she 
[68] 


THE    RECOVERY 

really  knew  of  the  master;  and  she  trembled  to  think 
of  the  state  of  relative  ignorance  in  which,  but  for  the 
timely  purchase  of  the  magazine,  she  might  have  en 
tered  Hillbridge.  She  had,  for  instance,  been  densely 
unaware  that  Keniston  had  already  had  three  te  man 
ners,'*  and  was  showing  symptoms  of  a  fourth.  She  was 
equally  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  he  had  founded  a 
school  and  "created  a  formula";  and  she  learned  with 
a  thrill  that  no  one  could  hope  to  understand  him  who 
had  not  seen  him  in  his  studio  at  Hillbridge,  surrounded 
by  his  own  works.  "The  man  and  the  art  interpret 
each  other,"  their  exponent  declared;  and  Claudia  Day, 
bending  a  brilliant  eye  on  the  future,  wondered  if  she 
were  ever  to  be  admitted  to  the  privilege  of  that  double 
initiation. 

Keniston,  to  his  other  claims  to  distinction,  added 
that  of  being  hard  to  know.  His  friends  always  has 
tened  to  announce  the  fact  to  strangers  —  adding  after 
a  pause  of  suspense  that  they  "would  see  what  they 
could  do."  Visitors  in  whose  favor  he  was  induced  to 
make  an  exception  were  further  warned  that  he  never 
spoke  unless  he  was  interested — so  that  they  mustn't 
mind  if  he  remained  silent.  It  was  under  these  reassur 
ing  conditions  that,  some  ten  days  after  her  arrival  at 
Hillbridge,  Miss  Day  was  introduced  to  the  master's 
studio.  She  found  him  a  tall  listless-looking  man,  who 
appeared  middle-aged  to  her  youth,  and  who  stood  be- 
[69] 


THE    RECOVERY 

fore  his  own  pictures  with  a  vaguely  interrogative  gaze, 
leaving  the  task  of  their  interpretation  to  the  lady  who 
had  courageously  contrived  the  visit.  The  studio,  to 
Claudia's  surprise,  was  bare  and  shabby.  It  formed  a 
rambling  addition  to  the  small  cheerless  house  in 
which  the  artist  lived  with  his  mother  and  a  widowed 
sister.  For  Claudia  it  added  the  last  touch  to  his  dis 
tinction  to  learn  that  he  was  poor,  and  that  what  he 
earned  was  devoted  to  the  maintenance  of  the  two 
limp  women  who  formed  a  neutral-tinted  background 
to  his  impressive  outline.  His  pictures  of  course  fetched 
high  prices;  but  he  worked  slowly — "painfully,"  as  his 
devotees  preferred  to  phrase  it — with  frequent  inter 
vals  of  ill  health  and  inactivity,  and  the  circle  of  Ken- 
iston  connoisseurs  was  still  as  small  as  it  was  distin 
guished.  The  girl's  fancy  instantly  hailed  in  him  that 
favorite  figure  of  imaginative  youth,  the  artist  who 
would  rather  starve  than  paint  a  pot-boiler.  It  is  known 
to  comparatively  few  that  the  production  of  successful 
pot-boilers  is  an  art  in  itself,  and  that  such  heroic  ab 
stentions  as  Keniston's  are  not  always  purely  voluntary. 
On  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  the  artist  said  so 
little  that  Claudia  was  able  to  indulge  to  the  full  the 
harrowing  sense  of  her  inadequacy.  No  wonder  she  had 
not  been  one  of  the  few  that  he  cared  to  talk  to ;  every 
word  she  uttered  must  so  obviously  have  diminished 
the  inducement!  She  had  been  cheap,  trivial,  conven- 
[70] 


THE     RECOVERY 

tional;  at  once  gushing  and  inexpressive,  eager  and 
constrained.  She  could  feel  him  counting  the  minutes 
till  the  visit  was  over,  and  as  the  door  finally  closed  on 
the  scene  of  her  discomfiture  she  almost  shared  the 
hope  with  which  she  confidently  credited  him — that 
they  might  never  meet  again. 

II 

MRS.  DAVANT  glanced  reverentially  about  the 
studio.  "I  have  always  said,"  she  murmured, 
"that  they  ought  to  be  seen  in  Europe." 

Mrs.  Davant  was  young,  credulous  and  emotionally 
extravagant:  she  reminded  Claudia  of  her  earlier  self— 
the  self  that,  ten  years  before,  had  first  set  an  awe 
struck  foot  on  that  very  threshold. 

"Not  for  his  sake,"  Mrs.  Davant  continued,  "but  for 
Europe's." 

Claudia  smiled.  She  was  glad  that  her  husband's  pic 
tures  were  to  be  exhibited  in  Paris.  She  concurred  in 
Mrs.  Davant' s  view  of  the  importance  of  the  event; 
but  she  thought  her  visitor's  way  of  putting  the  case 
a  little  overcharged.  Ten  years  spent  in  an  atmosphere 
of  Keniston-worship  had  insensibly  developed  in  Claudia 
a  preference  for  moderation  of  speech.  She  believed  in 
her  husband,  of  course;  to  believe  in  him,  with  an  in 
creasing  abandonment  and  tenacity,  had  become  one 
of  the  necessary  laws  of  being;  but  she  did  not  believe 
[71] 


THE    RECOVERY 

in  his  admirers.  Their  faith  in  him  was  perhaps  as  gen 
uine  as  her  own ;  but  it  seemed  to  her  less  able  to  give 
an  account  of  itself.  Some  few  of  his  appreciators  doubt 
less  measured  him  by  their  own  standards;  but  it  was 
difficult  not  to  feel  that  in  the  Hillbridge  circle,  where 
rapture  ran  the  highest,  he  was  accepted  on  what  was 
at  best  but  an  indirect  valuation ;  and  now  and  then  she 
had  a  frightened  doubt  as  to  the  independence  of  her 
own  convictions.  That  innate  sense  of  relativity  which 
even  East  Onondaigua  had  not  been  able  to  check  in 
Claudia  Day  had  been  fostered  in  Mrs.  Keniston  by 
the  artistic  absolutism  of  Hillbridge.,  and  she  often 
wondered  that  her  husband  remained  so  uncritical  of 
the  quality  of  admiration  accorded  him.  Her  husband's 
uncritical  attitude  toward  himself  and  his  admirers  had 
in  fact  been  one  of  the  surprises  of  her  marriage.  That 
an  artist  should  believe  in  his  potential  powers  seemed 
to  her  at  once  the  incentive  and  the  pledge  of  excel 
lence:  she  knew  there  was  no  future  for  a  hesitating 
talent.  What  perplexed  her  was  Keniston's  satisfaction 
in  his  achievement.  She  had  always  imagined  that  the 
true  artist  must  regard  himself  as  the  imperfect  vehicle 
of  the  cosmic  emotion — that  beneath  every  difficulty 
overcome  a  new  one  lurked,  the  vision  widening  as 
the  scope  enlarged.  To  be  initiated  into  these  creative 
struggles,  to  shed  on  the  toiler's  path  the  consolatory 
ray  of  faith  and  encouragement,  had  seemed  the  chief 
[72] 


THE     RECOVERY 

privilege  of  her  marriage.  But  there  is  something  super 
erogatory  in  believing  in  a  man  obviously  disposed  to 
perform  that  service  for  himself;  and  Claudia's  ardor 
gradually  spent  itself  against  the  dense  surface  of  her 
husband's  complacency.  She  could  smile  now  at  her 
vision  of  an  intellectual  communion  which  should  admit 
her  to  the  inmost  precincts  of  his  inspiration.  She  had 
learned  that  the  creative  processes  are  seldom  self-ex 
planatory,  and  Keniston's  inarticulateness  no  longer  dis 
couraged  her;  but  she  could  not  reconcile  her  sense  of 
the  continuity  of  all  high  effort  to  his  unperturbed  air 
of  finishing  each  picture  as  though  he  had  despatched 
a  masterpiece  to  posterity.  In  the  first  recoil  from  her 
disillusionment  she  even  allowed  herself  to  perceive 
that,  if  he  worked  slowly,  it  was  not  because  he  mis 
trusted  his  powers  of  expression,  but  because  he  had 
really  so  little  to  express. 

"It's  for  Europe,"  Mrs.  Davant  vaguely  repeated; 
and  Claudia  noticed  that  she  was  blushingly  intent  on 
tracing  with  the  tip  of  her  elaborate  sunshade  the  pat 
tern  of  the  shabby  carpet. 

"It  will  be  a  revelation  to  them,"  she  went  on  pro 
visionally,  as  though  Claudia  had  missed  her  cue  and 
left  an  awkward  interval  to  fill. 

Claudia  had  in  fact  a  sudden  sense  of  deficient  intui 
tion.  She  felt  that  her  visitor  had  something  to  commu 
nicate  which  required,  on  her  own  part,  an  intelligent 


THE     RECOVERY 

co-operation;  but  what  it  was  her  insight  failed  to  sug 
gest.  She  was,  in  truth,  a  little  tired  of  Mrs.  Davant, 
who  was  Keniston's  latest  worshipper,  who  ordered 
pictures  recklessly,  who  paid  for  them  regally  in  ad 
vance,  and  whose  gallery  was,  figuratively  speaking, 
crowded  with  the  artist's  unpainted  masterpieces.  Clau 
dia's  impatience  was  perhaps  complicated  by  the  un 
easy  sense  that  Mrs.  Davant  was  too  young,  too  rich, 
too  inexperienced;  that  somehow  she  ought  to  be 
warned.— Warned  of  what?  That  some  of  the  pictures 
might  never  be  painted?  Scarcely  that,  since  Keniston, 
who  was  scrupulous  in  business  transactions,  might  be 
trusted  not  to  take  any  material  advantage  of  such  evi 
dence  of  faith.  Claudia's  impulse  remained  undefined. 
She  merely  felt  that  she  would  have  liked  to  help  Mrs. 
Davant,  and  that  she  did  not  know  how. 

"You'll  be  there  to  see  them?"  she  asked,  as  her 
visitor  lingered. 

"In  Paris?"  Mrs.  Davant's  blush  deepened.  "We 
must  all  be  there  together." 

Claudia  smiled.  "My  husband  and  I  mean  to  go 
abroad  some  day — but  I  don't  see  any  chance  of  it  at 
present." 

"But  he  ought  to  go — you  ought   both    to   go   this 

summer!"  Mrs.  Davant   persisted.  "I  know  Professor 

Wildmarsh   and    Professor  Driffert  and  all   the  other 

critics  think  that  Mr,  Keniston's  never  having  been  to 

[74] 


THE     RECOVERY 

Europe  has  given  his  work  much  of  its  wonderful  indi 
viduality,  its  peculiar  flavor  and  meaning  —  but  now 
that  his  talent  is  formed,  that  he  has  full  command  of 
his  means  of  expression/'  (Claudia  recognized  one  of 
Professor  Driffert's  favorite  formulas)  "they  all  think 
he  ought  to  see  the  work  of  the  other  great  masters — 
that  he  ought  to  visit  the  home  of  his  ancestors,  as 
Professor  Wildmarsh  says ! "  She  stretched  an  impulsive 
hand  to  Claudia.  "You  ought  to  let  him  go,  Mrs.  Ken- 
iston!" 

Claudia  accepted  the  admonition  with  the  philosophy 
•  of  the  wife  who  is  used  to  being  advised  on  the  man 
agement  of  her  husband.  "I  shan't  interfere  with  him," 
she  declared ;  and  Mrs.  Davant  instantly  caught  her  up 
with  a  cry  of,  "Oh,  it's  too  lovely  of  you  to  say  that!" 
With  this  exclamation  she  left  Claudia  to  a  silent  re 
newal  of  wonder. 

A  moment  later  Keniston  entered:  to  a  mind  curious 
in  combinations  it  might  have  occurred  that  he  had 
met  Mrs.  Davant  on  the  door-step.  In  one  sense  he 
might,  for  all  his  wife  cared,  have  met  fifty  Mrs.  Da- 
vants  on  the  door-step:  it  was  long  since  Claudia  had 
enjoyed  the  solace  of  resenting  such  coincidences.  Her 
only  thought  now  was  that  her  husband's  first  words 
might  not  improbably  explain  Mrs.  Davant's  last;  and 
she  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

He  paused  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  before  an 
[75] 


THE     RECOVERY 

unfinished  picture  on  the  easel;  then,  as  his  habit  was, 
he  began  to  stroll  touristlike  from  canvas  to  canvas, 
standing  before  each  in  a  musing  ecstasy  of  contem 
plation  that  no  readjustment  of  view  ever  seemed  to 
disturb.  Her  eye  instinctively  joined  his  in  its  inspec 
tion;  it  was  the  one  point  where  their  natures  merged. 
Thank  God,  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  pictures! 
She  was  what  she  had  always  dreamed  of  being  —  the 
wife  of  a  great  artist.  Keniston  dropped  into  an  arm 
chair  and  filled  his  pipe.  "  How  should  you  like  to  go  to 
Europe?"  he  asked. 

His  wife  looked  up  quickly.  "When?" 

"Now — this  spring,  I  mean."  He  paused  to  light  the 
pipe.  "I  should  like  to  be  over  there  while  these  things 
are  being  exhibited." 

Claudia  was  silent. 

"Well?"  he  repeated  after  a  moment. 

"How  can  we  afford  it?"  she  asked. 

Keniston  had  always  scrupulously  fulfilled  his  duty 
to  the  mother  and  sister  whom  his  marriage  had  dis 
lodged;  and  Claudia,  who  had  the  atoning  tempera 
ment  which  seeks  to  pay  for  every  happiness  by  mak 
ing  it  a  source  of  fresh  obligations,  had  from  the  outset 
accepted  his  ties  with  an  exaggerated  devotion.  Any 
disregard  of  such  a  claim  would  have  vulgarized  her 
most  delicate  pleasures;  and  her  husband's  sensitive 
ness  to  it  in  great  measure  extenuated  the  artistic  ob- 
[76] 


THE    RECOVERY 

tuseness  that  often  seemed  to  her  like  a  failure  of  the 
moral  sense.  His  loyalty  to  the  dull  women  who  de 
pended  on  him  was,  after  all,  compounded  of  finer  tis 
sues  than  any  mere  sensibility  to  ideal  demands. 

"Oh,  I  don't  see  why  we  shouldn't/'  he  rejoined. 
"I  think  we  might  manage  it." 

"At  Mrs.  Davant's  expense?"  leaped  from  Claudia. 
She  could  not  tell  why  she  had  said  it;  some  inner  bar 
rier  seemed  to  have  given  way  under  a  confused  pres 
sure  of  emotions. 

He  looked  up  at  her  with  frank  surprise.  "Well,  she 
has  been  very  jolly  about  it — why  not?  She  has  a  tre 
mendous  feeling  for  art  —  the  keenest  I  ever  knew  in  a 
woman."  Claudia  imperceptibly  smiled.  "She  wants  me 
to  let  her  pay  in  advance  for  the  four  panels  she  has 
ordered  for  the  Memorial  Library.  That  would  give  us 
plenty  of  money  for  the  trip,  and  my  having  the  panels 
to  do  is  another  reason  for  my  wanting  to  go  abroad 
just  now." 

"Another  reason?" 

"Yes;  I  've  never  worked  on  such  a  big  scale.  I  want 
to  see  how  those  old  chaps  did  the  trick;  I  want  to 
measure  myself  with  the  big  fellows  over  there.  An 
artist  ought  to,  once  in  his  life." 

She  gave  him  a  wondering  look.  For  the  first  time 
his  words  implied  a  sense  of  possible  limitation;  but 
his  easy  tone  seemed  to  retract  what  they  conceded. 
[77] 


THE     RECOVERY 

What  he  really  wanted  was  fresh  food  for  his  self-satis 
faction:  he  was  like  an  army  that  moves  on  after  ex 
hausting  the  resources  of  the  country. 

Womanlike,  she  abandoned  the  general  survey  of 
the  case  for  the  consideration  of  a  minor  point. 

<f  Are  you  sure  you  can  do  that  kind  of  thing?"  she 
asked. 

"What  kind  of  thing?" 

"The  panels." 

He  glanced  at  her  indulgently:  his  self-confidence 
was  too  impenetrable  to  feel  the  pin-prick  of  such  a 
doubt. 

"Immensely  sure/'  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"And  you  don't  mind  taking  so  much  money  from 
her  in  advance?" 

He  stared.  "Why  should  I?  She'll  get  it  back— 
with  interest!"  He  laughed  and  drew  at  his  pipe.  "It 
will  be  an  uncommonly  interesting  experience.  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  it  freshened  me  up  a  bit." 

She  looked  at  him  again.  This  second  hint  of  self- 
distrust  struck  her  as  the  sign  of  a  quickened  sensi 
bility.  What  if,  after  all,  he  was  beginning  to  be  dis 
satisfied  with  his  work?  The  thought  filled  her  with  a 
renovating  sense  of  his  sufficiency. 


[78] 


THE     RECOVERY 

III 

THEY  stopped  in  London  to  see  the  National 
Gallery. 

It  was  thus  that,  in  their  inexperience,  they  had  nar 
rowly  put  it;  but  in  reality  every  stone  of  the  streets, 
every  trick  of  the  atmosphere,  had  its  message  of  sur 
prise  for  their  virgin  sensibilities.  The  pictures  were 
simply  the  summing  up,  the  final  interpretation,  of  the 
cumulative  pressure  of  an  unimagined  world;  and  it 
seemed  to  Claudia  that  long  before  they  reached  the 
doors  of  the  gallery  she  had  some  intuitive  revelation 
of  what  awaited  them  within. 

They  moved  about  from  room  to  room  without  ex 
changing  a  word.  The  vast  noiseless  spaces  seemed  full 
of  sound,  like  the  roar  of  a  distant  multitude  heard 
only  by  the  inner  ear.  Had  their  speech  been  articulate 
their  language  would  have  been  incomprehensible ;  and 
even  that  far-off  murmur  of  meaning  pressed  intoler 
ably  on  Claudia's  nerves.  Keniston  took  the  onset  with 
out  outward  sign  of  disturbance.  Now  and  then  he 
paused  before  a  canvas,  or  prolonged  from  one  of  the 
benches  his  silent  communion  with  some  miracle  of 
line  or  color;  but  he  neither  looked  at  his  wife  nor 
spoke  to  her.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  pres 
ence. 

Claudia  was  conscious  of  keeping  a  furtive  watch  on 
[79] 


THE     RECOVERY 

him;  but  the  sum  total  of  her  impressions  was  negative. 
She  remembered  thinking  when  she  first  met  him  that 
his  face  was  rather  expressionless;  and  he  had  the 
habit  of  self-engrossed  silences. 

All  that  evening,  at  the  hote!5  they  talked  about 
London,  and  he  surprised  her  by  an  acuteness  of  obser 
vation  that  she  had  sometimes  inwardly  accused  him 
of  lacking.  He  seemed  to  have  seen  everything,  to 
have  examined,  felt,  compared,  with  nerves  as  finely 
adjusted  as  her  own;  but  he  said  nothing  of  the  pic 
tures.  The  next  day  they  returned  to  the  National  Gal 
lery,  and  he  began  to  study  the  paintings  in  detail, 
pointing  out  differences  of  technique,  analyzing  and 
criticising,  but  still  without  summing  up  his  conclu 
sions.  He  seemed  to  have  a  sort  of  provincial  dread  of 
showing  himself  too  much  impressed.  Claudia's  own 
sensations  were  too  complex,  too  overwhelming,  to  be 
readily  classified.  Lacking  the  craftsman's  instinct  to 
steady  her,  she  felt  herself  carried  off  her  feet  by  the 
rush  of  incoherent  impressions.  One  point  she  con 
sciously  avoided,  and  that  was  the  comparison  of  her 
husband's  work  with  what  they  were  daily  seeing.  Art, 
she  inwardly  argued,  was  too  various,  too  complex,  de 
pendent  on  too  many  inter-relations  of  feeling  and 
environment,  to  allow  of  its  being  judged  by  any  pro 
visional  standard.  Even  the  subtleties  of  technique 
must  be  modified  by  the  artist's  changing  purpose,  as 
[80] 


THE     RECOVERY 

this  in  turn  is  acted  on  by  influences  of  which  he  is  him 
self  unconscious.  How,  then,  was  an  unprepared  imagi 
nation  to  distinguish  between  such  varied  reflections  of 
the  elusive  vision?  She  took  refuge  in  a  passionate  ex 
aggeration  of  her  own  ignorance  and  insufficiency. 

After  a  week  in  London  they  went  to  Paris.  The  ex 
hibition  of  Keniston's  pictures  had  been  opened  a  few 
days  earlier;  and  as  they  drove  through  the  streets  on 
the  way  to  the  station  an  "impressionist"  poster  here 
and  there  invited  them  to  the  display  of  the  American 
artist's  work.  Mrs.  Davant,  who  had  been  in  Paris  for 
the  opening,  had  already  written  rapturously  of  the 
impression  produced,  enclosing  commendatory  notices 
from  one  or  two  papers.  She  reported  that  there  had 
been  a  great  crowd  on  the  first  day,  and  that  the  critics 
had  been  "immensely  struck." 

The  Kenistons  arrived  in  the  evening,  and  the  next 
morning  Claudia,  as  a  matter  of  course,  asked  her  hus 
band  at  what  time  he  meant  to  go  and  see  the  pictures. 

He  looked  up  absently  from  his  guide-book. 

"What  pictures?" 

"Why — yours,"  she  said,  surprised. 

"Oh,   they'll    keep,"   he   answered;  adding  with  a 
slightly    embarrassed    laugh,    "We  '11    give    the    other 
chaps  a  show  first."  Presently  he  laid  down  his  book 
and  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  the  Louvre. 
[81   ] 


THE    RECOVERY 

They  spent  the  morning  there,  lunched  at  a  restau 
rant  near  by,  and  returned  to  the  gallery  in  the  after 
noon.  Keniston  had  passed  from  inarticulateness  to  an 
eager  volubility.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  beginning  to 
co-ordinate  his  impressions,  to  find  his  way  about  in  a 
corner  of  the  great  imaginative  universe.  He  seemed 
extraordinarily  ready  to  impart  his  discoveries;  and 
Claudia  felt  that  her  ignorance  served  him  as  a  con 
venient  buffer  against  the  terrific  impact  of  new  sensa 
tions. 

On  the  way  home  she  asked  when  he  meant  to  see 
Mrs.  Davant. 

His  answer  surprised  her.  "Does  she  know  we're 
here?" 

"Not  unless  you've  sent  her  word,"  said  Claudia, 
with  a  touch  of  harmless  irony. 

"That's  all  right,  then,"  he  returned  simply.  "I 
want  to  wait  and  look  about  a  day  or  two  longer.  She  'd 
want  us  to  go  sight-seeing  with  her;  and  I  'd  rather  get 
my  impressions  alone." 

The  next  two  days  were  hampered  by  the  necessity 
of  eluding  Mrs.  Davant.  Claudia,  under  different  cir 
cumstances,  would  have  scrupled  to  share  in  this  some 
what  shabby  conspiracy;  but  she  found  herself  in  a 
state  of  suspended  judgment,  wherein  her  husband's 
treatment  of  Mrs.  Davant  became  for  the  moment 
merely  a  clue  to  larger  meanings. 
[82] 


THE    RECOVERY 

They  had  been  four  days  in  Paris  when  Claudia,  re 
turning  one  afternoon  from  a  parenthetical  excursion 
to  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  was  confronted  on  her  threshold 
by  the  reproachful  figure  of  their  benefactress.  It  was 
not  to  her,  however,  that  Mrs.  Davant's  reproaches 
were  addressed.  Keniston,  it  appeared,  had  borne  the 
brunt  of  them;  for  he  stood  leaning  against  the  man 
telpiece  of  their  modest  salon  in  that  attitude  of  con 
victed  negligence  when,  if  ever,  a  man  is  glad  to  take 
refuge  behind  his  wife. 

Claudia  had  however  no  immediate  intention  of  af 
fording  him  such  shelter.  She  wanted  to  observe  and 
wait. 

"He's  too  impossible!"  cried  Mrs.  Davant,  sweeping 
her  at  once  into  the  central  current  of  her  grievance. 

Claudia  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

"For  not  going  to  see  you?" 

"For  not  going  to  see  his  pictures!"  cried  the  other 
nobly. 

Claudia  colored  and  Keniston  shifted  his  position  un 
easily. 

"I  can't  make  her  understand,"  he  said,  turning  to 
his  wife. 

"I  don't  care  about  myself!"  Mrs.  Davant  inter 
jected. 

"/  do,  then;  it's  the  only  thing  I  do  care  about," 
he  hurriedly  protested.  "I  meant  to  go  at  once  —  to 
[83] 


THE     RECOVERY 

write  —  Claudia  wanted  to  go,  but  I  wouldn't  let  her." 
He  looked  helplessly  about  the  pleasant  red-curtained 
room,  which  was  rapidly  burning  itself  into  Claudia's 
consciousness  as  a  visible  extension  of  Mrs.  Davant's 
claims. 

"I  can't  explain/'  he  broke  off. 

Mrs.  Davant  in  turn  addressed  herself  to  Claudia. 

"People  think  it's  so  odd,"  she  complained.  "So 
many  of  the  artists  here  are  anxious  to  meet  him; 
they've  all  been  so  charming  about  the  pictures;  and 
several  of  our  American  friends  have  come  over  from 
London  expressly  for  the  exhibition.  I  told  every  one 
that  he  would  be  here  for  the  opening — there  was  a 
private  view,  you  know  —  and  they  were  so  disap 
pointed — they  wanted  to  give  him  an  ovation;  and  I 
didn't  know  what  to  say.  What  am  I  to  say?"  she  ab 
ruptly  ended. 

"There's  nothing  to  say,"  said  Keniston  slowly. 

"But  the  exhibition  closes  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"Well,  /  sha'n't  close  —  I  shall  be  here,"  he  declared 
with  an  effort  at  playfulness.  "If  they  want  to  see  me 
— all  these  people  you 're  kind  enough  to  mention  — 
won't  there  be  other  chances?" 

"But  I  wanted  them  to  see  you  among  your  pictures 
—to  hear  you  talk  about  them,  explain  them  in  that 
wonderful  way.  I  wanted  you  to  interpret  each  other, 
as  Professor  Wildmarsh  says!" 
[84] 


THE     RECOVERY 

"Oh,  hang  Professor  Wildmarsh!"  said  Keniston, 
softening  the  commination  with  a  smile.  "If  my  pic 
tures  are  good  for  anything  they  ought  n't  to  need  ex 
plaining." 

Mrs.  Davant  stared.  "But  I  thought  that  was  what 
made  them  so  interesting!"  she  exclaimed. 

Keniston  looked  down.  "Perhaps  it  was/'  he  mur 
mured. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence,  which  Claudia  broke 
by  saying,  with  a  glance  at  her  husband:  "But  if  the 
exhibition  is  to  remain  open  to-morrow,  could  we  not 
meet  you  there?  And  perhaps  you  could  send  word  to 
some  of  our  friends." 

Mrs.  Davant  brightened  like  a  child  whose  broken 
toy  is  glued  together.  "Oh,  do  make  him!"  she  im 
plored.  "I  '11  ask  them  to  come  in  the  afternoon— 
we'll  make  it  into  a  little  tea — a.  Jive  o'clock.  I  '11  send 
word  at  once  to  everybody!"  She  gathered  up  her  be- 
ruffled  boa  and  sunshade,  settling  her  plumage  like  a 
reassured  bird.  "It  will  be  too  lovely!"  she  ended  in  a 
self-consoling  murmur. 

But  in  the  doorway  a  new  doubt  assailed  her.  "You 
won't  fail  me?"  she  said,  turning  plaintively  to  Kenis 
ton.  "You'll  make  him  come,  Mrs.  Keniston?" 

"I'll  bring  him!"  Claudia  promised. 


[85] 


THE     RECOVERY 

IV 

WHEN,  the  next  morning,  she  appeared  equipped 
for  their  customary  ramble,  her  husband  sur 
prised   her  by  announcing  that  he  meant  to  stay  at 
home. 

"The  fact  is  I  'm  rather  surfeited/'  he  said,  smiling. 
"I  suppose  my  appetite  isn't  equal  to  such  a  plethora. 
I  think  I  '11  write  some  letters  and  join  you  somewhere 
later." 

She  detected  the  wish  to  be  alone  and  responded  to 
it  with  her  usual  readiness. 

"I  shall  sink  to  my  proper  level  and  buy  a  bonnet, 
then,"  she  said.  « I  have  n't  had  time  to  take  the  edge 
off  that  appetite." 

They  agreed  to  meet  at  the  Hotel  Cluny  at  mid-day, 
and  she  set  out  alone  with  a  vague  sense  of  relief. 
Neither  she  nor  Keniston  had  made  any  direct  refer 
ence  to  Mrs.  Davant's  visit;  but  its  effect  was  implicit 
in  their  eagerness  to  avoid  each  other. 

Claudia  accomplished  some  shopping  in  the  spirit  of 
perfunctoriness  that  robs  even  new  bonnets  of  their 
bloom;  and  this  business  despatched,  she  turned  aim 
lessly  into  the  wide  inviting  brightness  of  the  streets. 
Never  had  she  felt  more  isolated  amid  that  ordered 
beauty  which  gives  a  social  quality  to  the  very  stones 
and  mortar  of  Paris.  All  about  her  were  evidences  of 
[86] 


THE     RECOVERY 

an  artistic  sensibility  pervading  every  form  of  life  like 
the  nervous  structure  of  the  huge  frame — a  sensibility 
so  delicate,  alert  and  universal  that  it  seemed  to  leave 
no  room  for  obtuseness  or  error.  In  such  a  medium  the 
faculty  of  plastic  expression  must  develop  as  uncon 
sciously  as  any  organ  in  its  normal  surroundings ;  to  be 
"artistic"  must  cease  to  be  an  attitude  and  become  a 
natural  function.  To  Claudia  the  significance  of  the 
whole  vast  revelation  was  centred  in  the  light  it  shed 
on  one  tiny  spot  of  consciousness — the  value  of  her 
husband's  work.  There  are  moments  when  to  the  grop 
ing  soul  the  world's  accumulated  experiences  are  but 
stepping-stones  across  a  private  difficulty. 

She  stood  hesitating  on  a  street  corner.  It  was  barely 
eleven,  and  she  had  an  hour  to  spare  before  going  to 
the  Hotel  Cluny.  She  seemed  to  be  letting  her  inclina 
tion  float  as  it  would  on  the  cross-currents  of  sugges 
tion  emanating  from  the  brilliant  complex  scene  before 
her;  but  suddenly,  in  obedience  to  an  impulse  that  she 
became  aware  of  only  in  acting  on  it,  she  called  a  cab 
and  drove  to  the  gallery  where  her  husband's  pictures 
were  exhibited. 

A  magnificent  official  in  gold  braid  sold  her  a  ticket 
and  pointed  the  way  up  the  empty  crimson-carpeted 
stairs.  His  duplicate,  on  the  upper  landing,  held  out 
a  catalogue  with  an  air  of  recognizing  the  futility  of 
the  offer;  and  a  moment  later  she  found  herself  in  the 
[87] 


THE     RECOVERY 

long  noiseless  impressive  room  full  of  velvet-covered 
ottomans  and  exotic  plants.  It  was  clear  that  the  public 
ardor  on  which  Mrs.  Davant  had  expatiated  had  spent 
itself  earlier  in  the  week;  for  Claudia  had  this  luxu 
rious  apartment  to  herself.  Something  about  its  air  of 
rich  privacy,  its  diffusion  of  that  sympathetic  quality  in 
other  countries  so  conspicuously  absent  from  the  public 
show-room,  seemed  to  emphasize  its  present  empti 
ness.  It  was  as  though  the  flowers,  the  carpet,  the 
lounges,  surrounded  their  visitor's  solitary  advance  with 
the  mute  assurance  that  they  had  done  all  they  could 
toward  making  the  thing  "go  off,"  and  that  if  they  had 
failed  it  was  simply  for  lack  of  co-operation.  She  stood 
still  and  looked  about  her.  The  pictures  struck  her  in 
stantly  as  odd  gaps  in  the  general  harmony;  it  was 
self-evident  that  they  had  not  co-operated.  They  had 
not  been  pushing,  aggressive,  discordant:  they  had 
merely  effaced  themselves.  She  swept  a  startled  eye 
from  one  familiar  painting  to  another.  The  canvases 
were  all  there — and  the  frames — but  the  miracle,  the 
mirage  of  life  and  meaning,  had  vanished  like  some 
atmospheric  illusion.  What  was  it  that  had  happened? 
And  had  it  happened  to  her  or  to  the  pictures?  She 
tried  to  rally  her  frightened  thoughts ;  to  push  or  coax 
them  into  a  semblance  of  resistance;  but  argument 
was  swept  off  its  feet  by  the  huge  rush  of  a  single 
conviction — the  conviction  that  the  pictures  were  bad. 
[88] 


THE     RECOVERY 

There  was  no  standing  up  against  that:  she  felt  her 
self  submerged. 

The  stealthy  fear  that  had  been  following  her  all 
these  days  had  her  by  the  throat  now.  The  great  vision 
of  beauty  through  which  she  had  been  moving  as  one 
enchanted  was  turned  to  a  phantasmagoria  of  evil 
mocking  shapes.  She  hated  the  past;  she  hated  its 
splendor,  its  power,  its  wicked  magical  vitality.  .  . 
She  dropped  into  a  seat  and  continued  to  stare  at  the 
wall  before  her.  Gradually,  as  she  stared,  there  stole 
out  to  her  from  the  dimmed  humbled  canvases  a  re 
minder  of  what  she  had  once  seen  in  them,  a  spectral 
appeal  to  her  faith  to  call  them  back  to  life.  What 
proof  had  she  that  her  present  estimate  of  them  was 
less  subjective  than  the  other?  The  confused  impres 
sions  of  the  last  few  days  were  hardly  to  be  pleaded 
as  a  valid  theory  of  art.  How,  after  all,  did  she  know 
that  the  pictures  were  bad?  On  what  suddenly  ac 
quired  technical  standard  had  she  thus  decided  the 
case  against  them?  It  seemed  as  though  it  were  a 
standard  outside  of  herself,  as  though  some  unheeded 
inner  sense  were  gradually  making  her  aware  of  the 
presence,  in  that  empty  room,  of  a  critical  intelligence 
that  was  giving  out  a  subtle  effluence  of  disapproval. 
The  fancy  was  so  vivid  that,  to  shake  it  off,  she  rose 
and  began  to  move  about  again.  In  the  middle  of  the 
room  stood  a  monumental  divan  surmounted  by  a  massif 
f  »9] 


THE     RECOVERY 

of  palms  and  azaleas.  As  Claudia's  muffled  wanderings 
carried  her  around  the  angle  of  this  seat,  she  saw  that 
its  farther  side  was  occupied  by  the  figure  of  a  man, 
who  sat  with  his  hands  resting  on  his  stick  and  his 
head  bowed  upon  them.  She  gave  a  little  cry  and  her 
husband  rose  and  faced  her. 

Instantly  the  live  point  of  consciousness  was  shifted, 
and  she  became  aware  that  the  quality  of  the  pictures 
no  longer  mattered.  It  was  what  he  thought  of  them 
that  counted:  her  life  hung  on  that. 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  moment  in  silence;  such 
concussions  are  not  apt  to  flash  into  immediate  speech. 
At  length  he  said  simply,  "I  didn't  know  you  were 
coming  here." 

She  colored  as  though  he  had  charged  her  with 
something  underhand. 

"I  didn't  mean  to,"  she  stammered;  "but  I  was  too 
early  for  our  appointment — " 

Her  words  cast  a  revealing  glare  on  the  situation. 
Neither  of  them  looked  at  the  pictures ;  but  to  Claudia 
those  unobtruding  presences  seemed  suddenly  to  press 
upon  them  and  force  them  apart. 

Keniston  glanced  at  his  watch.  "It's  twelve  o'clock/' 
he  said.  " Shall  we  go  on?" 


[90] 


THE     RECOVERY 


AT  the  door  he  called  a  cab  and  put  her  in  it ;  then, 
drawing  out  his  watch  again,  he  said  abruptly: 
"I  believe  I'll  let  you  go  alone.  I'll  join  you  at  the 
hotel  in  time  for  luncheon."  She  wondered  for  a  mo 
ment  if  he  meant  to  return  to  the  gallery;  but,  looking 
back  as  she  drove  off,  she  saw  him  walk  rapidly  away 
in  the  opposite  direction. 

The  cabman  had  carried  her  half-way  to  the  Hotel 
Cluny  before  she  realized  where  she  was  going,  and 
cried  out  to  him  to  turn  home.  There  was  an  acute 
irony  in  this  mechanical  prolongation  of  the  quest  of 
beauty.  She  had  had  enough  of  it,  too  much  of  it;  her 
one  longing  was  to  escape,  to  hide  herself  away  from 
its  all-suffusing  implacable  light. 

At  the  hotel,  alone  in  her  room,  a  few  tears  came  to 
soften  her  seared  vision;  but  her  mood  was  too  tense 
to  be  eased  by  weeping.  Her  whole  being  was  centred 
in  the  longing  to  know  what  her  husband  thought. 
Their  short  exchange  of  words  had,  after  all,  told  her 
nothing.  She  had  guessed  a  faint  resentment  at  her  un 
expected  appearance;  but  that  might  merely  imply  a 
dawning  sense,  on  his  part,  of  being  furtively  watched 
and  criticised.  She  had  sometimes  wondered  if  he  was 
never  conscious  of  her  observation;  there  were  mo 
ments  when  it  seemed  to  radiate  from  her  in  visible 

[91  ] 


THE    RECOVERY 

waves.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  aware  of  it,  on  his 
guard  against  it,  as  a  lurking  knife  behind  the  thick 
curtain  of  his  complacency;  and  to-day  he  must  have 
caught  the  gleam  of  the  blade. 

Claudia  had  not  reached  the  age  when  pity  is  the 
first  chord  to  vibrate  in  contact  with  any  revelation  of 
failure.  Her  one  hope  had  been  that  Keniston  should 
be  clear-eyed  enough  to  face  the  truth.  Whatever  it 
turned  out  to  be,  she  wanted  him  to  measure  himself 
with  it.  But  as  his  image  rose  before  her  she  felt  a  sud 
den  half-maternal  longing  to  thrust  herself  between 
him  and  disaster.  Her  eagerness  to  see  him  tested  by 
circumstances  seemed  now  like  a  cruel  scientific  curi 
osity.  She  saw  in  a  flash  of  sympathy  that  he  would 
need  her  most  if  he  fell  beneath  his  fate. 

He  did  not,  after  all,  return  for  luncheon;  and  when 
she  came  up-stairs  from  her  solitary  meal  their  salon 
was  still  untenanted.  She  permitted  herself  no  sensa 
tional  fears;  for  she  could  not,  at  the  height  of  appre 
hension,  figure  Keniston  as  yielding  to  any  tragic  im 
pulse  ;  but  the  lengthening  hours  brought  an  uneasiness 
that  was  fuel  to  her  pity.  Suddenly  she  heard  the  clock 
strike  five.  It  was  the  hour  at  which  they  had  promised 
to  meet  Mrs.  Davant  at  the  gallery  —  the  hour  of  the 
"ovation."  Claudia  rose  and  went  to  the  window,  strain 
ing  for  a  glimpse  of  her  husband  in  the  crowded  street. 
Could  it  be  that  he  had  forgotten  her,  had  gone  to  the 
[92] 


THE     RECOVERY 

gallery  without  her?  Or  had  something  happened — 
that  veiled  "something"  which,,  for  the  last  hour,  had 
grimly  hovered  on  the  outskirts  of  her  mind? 

She  heard  a  hand  on  the  door  and  Keniston  entered. 
As  she  turned  to  meet  him  her  whole  being  was  swept 
forward  on  a  great  wave  of  pity:  she  was  so  sure,  now, 
that  he  must  know. 

But  he  confronted  her  with  a  glance  of  preoccupied 
brightness;  her  first  impression  was  that  she  had  never 
seen  him  so  vividly,  so  expressively  pleased.  If  he  needed 
her,  it  was  not  to  bind  up  his  wounds. 

He  gave  her  a  smile  which  was  clearly  the  lingering 
reflection  of  some  inner  light.  "I  didn't  mean  to  be  so 
late,"  he  said,  tossing  aside  his  hat  and  the  little  red 
volume  that  served  as  a  clue  to  his  explorations.  "I 
turned  in  to  the  Louvre  for  a  minute  after  I  left  you 
this  morning,  and  the  place  fairly  swallowed  me  up — 
I  couldn't  get  away  from  it.  I've  been  there  ever 
since."  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  glanced 
about  for  his  pipe. 

"It  takes  time,"  he  continued  musingly,  "to  get  at 
them,  to  make  out  what  they're  saying — the  big  fel 
lows,  I  mean.  They  're  not  a  communicative  lot.  At  first 
I  couldn't  make  much  out  of  their  lingo — it  was  too 
different  from  mine!  But  gradually,  by  picking  up  a 
hint  here  and  there,  and  piecing  them  together,  I've 
begun  to  understand ;  and  to-day,  by  Jove,  I  got  one  or 
[93  } 


THE     RECOVERY 

two  of  the  old  chaps  by  the  throat  and  fairly  turned 
them  inside  out — made  them  deliver  up  their  last 
drop."  He  lifted  a  brilliant  eye  to  her.  "Lord,  it  was 
tremendous!"  he  declared. 

He  had  found  his  pipe  and  was  musingly  filling  it. 
Claudia  waited  in  silence. 

"At  first,"  he  began  again,  "I  was  afraid  their  lan 
guage  was  too  hard  for  me  —  that  I  should  never  quite 
know  what  they  were  driving  at;  they  seemed  to  cold- 
shoulder  me,  to  be  bent  on  shutting  me  out.  But  I  was 
bound  I  wouldn't  be  beaten,  and  now,  to-day" — he 
paused  a  moment  to  strike  a  match — "when  I  went  to 
look  at  those  things  of  mine  it  all  came  over  me  in  a 
flash.  By  Jove!  it  was  as  if  I  'd  made  them  all  into  a  big 
bonfire  to  light  me  on  my  road!" 

His  wife  was  trembling  with  a  kind  of  sacred  terror. 
She  had  been  afraid  to  pray  for  light  for  him,  and  here 
he  was  joyfully  casting  his  whole  past  upon  the  pyre! 

"Is  there  nothing  left?"  she  faltered. 

"Nothing  left?  There's  everything!"  he  exulted. 
"Why,  here  I  am,  not  much  over  forty,  and  I  've  found 
out  already — already!"  He  stood  up  and  began  to 
move  excitedly  about  the  room.  "My  God!  Suppose  I'd 
never  known!  Suppose  I'd  gone  on  painting  things 
like  that  forever!  Why,  I  feel  like  those  chaps  at  revi 
valist  meetings  when  they  get  up  and  say  they're 
saved!  Won't  somebody  please  start  a  hymn?" 

r  9*1 


THE     RECOVERY 

Claudia,  with  a  tremulous  joy,  was  letting  herself  go 
on  the  strong  current  of  his  emotion;  but  it  had  not 
yet  carried  her  beyond  her  depth,  and  suddenly  she 
felt  hard  ground  underfoot. 

"Mrs.  Davant—  "  she  exclaimed. 

He  stared,  as  though  suddenly  recalled  from  a  long 
distance.  "Mrs.  Davant?" 

"We  were  to  have  met  her— this  afternoon— 
now — 

"At  the  gallery?  Oh,  that's  all  right.  I  put  a  stop  to 
that ;  I  went  to  see  her  after  I  left  you ;  I  explained  it 
all  to  her." 

"All?" 

"I  told  her  I  was  going  to  begin  all  over  again." 

Claudia's  heart  gave  a  forward  bound  and  then  sank 
back  hopelessly. 

"But  the  panels  —  ?" 

"That's  all  right  too.  I  told  her  about  the  panels," 
he  reassured  her. 

"You  told  her—?" 

"That  I  can't  paint  them  now.  She  doesn't  under 
stand,  of  course;  but  she's  the  best  little  woman  and 
she  trusts  me." 

She  could  have  wept  for  joy  at  his  exquisite  obtuse- 
ness.  "But  that  isn't  all,"  she  wailed.  "It  doesn't  mat 
ter  how  much  you've  explained  to  her.  It  doesn't  do 
away  with  the  fact  that  we  're  living  on  those  panels!" 
[95] 


THE     RECOVERY 

" Living  on  them?" 

"On  the  money  that  she  paid  you  to  paint  them. 
Isn't  that  what  brought  us  here?  And — if  you  mean  to 
do  as  you  say — to  begin  all  over  again  —  how  in  the 
world  are  we  ever  to  pay  her  back?" 

Her  husband  turned  on  her  an  inspired  eye.  "There  's 
only  one  way  that  I  know  of,"  he  imperturbably  de 
clared,  "and  that's  to  stay  out  here  till  I  learn  how  to 
paint  them." 


[96] 


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"COPY' 

A     DIALOGUE 

MRS.  AMBROSE  DALE — forty,  slender,  still  young — sits  in 
her  drawing-room  at  the  tea-table.  The  winter  twilight  is 
falling,  a  lamp  has  been  lit,  there  is  ajire  on  the  hearth, 
and  the  room  is  pleasantly  dim  and  Jlower-scented.  Books 
are  scattered  everywhere — mostly  with  autograph  inscrip 
tions  "From  the  Author" — and  a  large  portrait  of  Mrs. 
Dale,  at  her  desk,  with  papers  strewn  about  her,  takes  up 
one  of  the  wall-panels.  Before  Mrs.  Dale  stands  Hilda, 
fair  and  twenty,  her  hands  full  of  letters. 

MRS.  DALE.  Ten  more  applications  for  auto 
graphs?  Isn't  it  strange  that  people  who'd 
blush  to  borrow  twenty  dollars  don't  scruple 
to  beg  for  an  autograph? 
Hilda  (reproachfully).  Oh — 
Mrs.  Dale.  What's  the  difference,,  pray? 
Hilda.  Only  that^owr  last  autograph  sold  for  fifty — 
Mrs.   Dale  (not   displeased).    Ah? — I    sent   for   you, 
Hilda,  because  I  'm  dining  out  to-night,  and  if  there 's 
nothing  important  to  attend  to  among  these   letters 
you  needn't  sit  up  for  me. 

Hilda.  You  don't  mean  to  work? 
Mrs.  Dale.  Perhaps;  but  I  sha'n't  need  you.  You'll 
see  that  my  cigarettes  and  coffee-machine  are  in  place, 
F99] 


"COPY1 

and  that  I  don't  have  to  crawl  about  the  floor  in  search 
of  my  pen-wiper?  That's  all.  Now  about  these  let 
ters — 

Hilda  (impulsively).  Oh,  Mrs.   Dale — 

Mrs.  Dale.  Well? 

Hilda.  I  'd  rather  sit  up  for  you. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Child,  I  've  nothing  for  you  to  do.  I  shall 
be  blocking  out  the  tenth  chapter  of  Winged  Purposes 
and  it  won't  be  ready  for  you  till  next  week. 

Hilda.  It  isn't  that — but  it's  so  beautiful  to  sit 
here,  watching  and  listening,  all  alone  in  the  night,  and 
to  feel  that  you  're  in  there  ( she  points  to  the  study -door) 
creating — .  (Impulsively.)  What  do  I  care  for  sleep? 

Mrs.  Dale  (indulgently).  Child  — silly  child!—  Yes,  I 
should  have  felt  so  at  your  age — it  would  have  been 
an  inspiration — 

Hilda  (rapt).  It  is! 

Mrs.  Dale.  But  you  must  go  to  bed ;  I  must  have  you 
fresh  in  the  morning ;  for  you  're  still  at  the  age  when 
one  is  fresh  in  the  morning!  (She  sighs. )  The  letters? 
(Abruptly.)  Do  you  take  notes  of  what  you  feel,  Hilda 
—  here,  all  alone  in  the  night,  as  you  say? 

Hilda  (shyly).  I  have  — 

Mrs.  Dale  (smiling).  For  the  diary? 

Hilda  (nods  and  blushes). 

Mrs.  Dale  (caressingly).  Goose! — Well,  to  business. 
What  is  there? 

[  100  ] 


"COPY1 

Hilda.  Nothing  important,  except  a  letter  from 
Stroud  &  Fayerweather  to  say  that  the  question  of  the 
royalty  on  Pomegranate  Seed  has  been  settled  in  your 
favor.  The  English  publishers  of  Immolation  write  to 
consult  you  about  a  six-shilling  edition;  Olafson,  the 
Copenhagen  publisher,  applies  for  permission  to  bring 
out  a  Danish  translation  of  The  Idol's  Feet;  and  the  edi 
tor  of  the  Semaphore  wants  a  new  serial  —  I  think  that 's 
all;  except  that  Woman  s  Sphere  and  The  Droplight  ask 
for  interviews — with  photographs — 

Mrs.  Dale.  The  same  old  story!  I  'm  so  tired  of  it  all. 
C To  herself,  in  an  undertone.)  But  how  should  I  feel  if 
it  all  stopped?  (The  servant  brings  in  a  card.) 

Mrs.  Dale  (reading  it).  Is  it  possible?  Paul  Ventnor? 
(To  the  servant.)  Show  Mr.  Ventnor  up.  (To  herself.) 
Paul  Ventnor! 

Hilda  (breathless).  Oh,  Mrs.  Dale— the  Mr.  Ventnor? 

Mrs.  Dale  (smiling).   I  fancy  there 's  only  one. 

Hilda.  The  great,  great  poet?  (Irresolute.)  No,  I  don't 
dare  — 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  a  tinge  of  impatience).  What  ? 

Hilda  (fervently).  Ask  you  —  if  I  might  —  oh,  here  in 
this  corner,  where  he  can't  possibly  notice  me — stay 
just  a  moment?  Just  to  see  him  come  in?  To  see  the 
meeting  between  you  —  the  greatest  novelist  and  the 
greatest  poet  of  the  age?  Oh,  it's  too  much  to  ask! 
It's  an  historic  moment. 

[10!] 


"COPY' 

Mrs.  Dale.  Why,  I  suppose  it  is.  I  hadn't  thought  of 
it  in  that  light.  Well  (smiling),  for  the  diary — 

Hilda.  Oh_,  thank  you,  thank  you !  I  '11  be  off  the  very 
instant  I  've  heard  him  speak. 

Mrs.  Dale.  The  very  instant,  mind.  (She  rises,  looks 
at  herself  in  the  glass,  smooths  her  hair,  sits  down  again, 
and  rattles  the  tea-caddy.)  Isn't  the  room  very  warm? — 
(She  looks  over  at  her  portrait.)  I  've  grown  stouter  since 
that  was  painted — .  You  '11  make  a  fortune  out  of  that 
diary,  Hilda — 

Hilda  (modestly).  Four  publishers  have  applied  to  me 
already — 

The  Servant  (announces).  Mr.   Paul  Ventnor. 

(Tall,  nearing  Jjfty ,  with  an  incipient  stoutness  buttoned 
into  a  masterly  frock-coat,  Ventnor  drops  his  glass  and  ad 
vances  vaguely,  with  a  short-sighted  stare.) 

Ventnor.   Mrs.  Dale? 

Mrs.  Dale.  My  dear  friend!  This  is  kind.  (She  looks 
over  her  shoulder  at  Hilda,  who  vanishes  through  the  door 
to  the  left.)  The  papers  announced  your  arrival,  but  I 
hardly  hoped — 

Ventnor  (whose  short-sighted  stare  is  seen  to  conceal  a 
deeper  embarrassment).  You  had  n't  forgotten  me,  then? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Delicious!  DO^OM  forget  that  you  're  pub 
lic  property? 

Ventnor.  Forgotten,  I  mean,  that  we  were  old  friends  ? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Such  old  friends!  May  I  remind  you  that 
[  102] 


"COPY' 

it's  nearly  twenty  years  since  we've  met?  Or  do  you 
find  cold  reminiscences  indigestible? 

Ventnor.  On  the  contrary,  I  've  come  to  ask  you  for  a 
dish  of  them — we'll  warm  them  up  together.  You're 
my  first  visit. 

Mrs.  Dale.  How  perfect  of  you!  So  few  men  visit 
their  women  friends  in  chronological  order;  or  at  least 
they  generally  do  it  the  other  way  round,  beginning 
with  the  present  day  and  working  back — if  there's 
time  —  to  prehistoric  woman. 

Ventnor.  But  when  prehistoric  woman  has  become 
historic  woman — ? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Oh,  it 's  the  reflection  of  my  glory  that 
has  guided  you  here,  then? 

Ventnor.  It's  a  spirit  in  my  feet  that  has  led  me,  at 
the  first  opportunity,  to  the  most  delightful  spot  I 
know. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Oh,  the  first  opportunity — ! 

Ventnor.  I  might  have  seen  you  very  often  before; 
but  never  just  in  the  right  way. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Is  this  the  right  way? 

Ventnor.  It  depends  on  you  to  make  it  so. 

Mrs.  Dale.  What  a  responsibility!  What  shall  I  do? 

Ventnor.  Talk  to  me — make  me  think  you  're  a  little 
glad  to  see  me;  give  me  some  tea  and  a  cigarette;  and 
say  you're  out  to  everyone  else. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Is  that  all  ?  ( She  hands  him  a  cup  of  tea.) 
[  103  ] 


"COPY1 

The  cigarettes  are  at  your  elbow — .  And  do  you  think 
I  shouldn't  have  been  glad  to  see  you  before? 

Ventnor.  No;  I  think  I  should  have  been  too  glad  to 
see  you. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Dear  me,  what  precautions!  I  hope  you 
always  wear  goloshes  when  it  looks  like  rain  and  never 
by  any  chance  expose  yourself  to  a  draught.  But  I  had 
an  idea  that  poets  courted  the  emotions — 

Ventnor.  Do  novelists? 

Mrs.  Dale.  If  you  ask  me — on  paper! 

Ventnor.  Just  so;  that's  safest.  My  best  things  about 
the  sea  have  been  written  on  shore.  (He  looks  at  her 
thoughtfully.)  But  it  would  n't  have  suited  us  in  the  old 
days,  would  it? 

Mrs.  Dale  (sighing}.  When  we  were  real  people! 

Ventnor.  Real  people? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Are  you,  now?  I  died  years  ago.  What 
you  see  before  you  is  a  figment  of  the  reporter's  brain 
— a  monster  manufactured  out  of  newspaper  para 
graphs,  with  ink  in  its  veins.  A  keen  sense  of  copyright 
is  my  nearest  approach  to  an  emotion. 

Ventnor  (sighing).  Ah,  well,  yes — as  you  say,  we're 
public  property. 

Mrs.  Dale.  If  one  shared  equally  with  the  public! 
But  the  last  shred  of  my  identity  is  gone. 

Ventnor.  Most  people  would  be  glad  to  part  with 
theirs  on  such  terms.  I  have  followed  your  work  with 
[  104] 


"COPY' 

immense  interest.  Immolation  is  a  masterpiece.  I  read 
it  last  summer  when  it  first  came  out. 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  a  shade  less  warmth).  Immolation  has 
been  out  three  years. 

Ventnor.  Oh,  by  Jove  —  no?  Surely  not —  But  one  is 
so  overwhelmed — one  loses  count.  (Reproachfully.) 
Why  have  you  never  sent  me  your  books? 

Mrs.  Dale.  For  that  very  reason. 

Ventnor  (deprecatingly).  You  know  I  didn't  mean  it 
for  you!  And  my  first  book — do  you  remember — was 
dedicated  to  you. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Silver  Trumpets — 

Ventnor  (much  interested).  Have  you  a  copy  still,  by 
any  chance?  The  first  edition,  I  mean?  Mine  was  stolen 
years  ago.  Do  you  think  you  could  put  your  hand  on  it? 

Mrs.  Dale  (taking  a  small  shabby  book  from  the  table  at 
her  side).  It 's  here. 

Ventnor  (eagerly).  May  I  have  it?  Ah,  thanks.  This 
is  very  interesting.  The  last  copy  sold  in  London  for 
.£40,  and  they  tell  me  the  next  will  fetch  twice  as 
much.  It 's  quite  introuvable. 

Mrs.  Dale.  I  know  that.  (A  pause.  She  takes  the  book 
from  him,  opens  it,  and  reads,  half  to  herself — ) 

How  much  we  two  have  seen  together, 

Of  other  eyes  unwist, 
Dear  as  in  days  of  leaf  ess  weather 

The  willow  s  saffron  mist, 
[   105] 


"COPY' 

Strange  as  the  hour  when  Hesper  swings 

A-sea  in  beryl  green, 
While  overhead  on  dalliant  wings 

The  daylight  hangs  serene, 

And  thrilling  as  a  meteor  s  fall 

Through  depths  of  lonely  sky, 
When  each  to  each  two  watchers  call: 

I  saw  it!— So  did  I. 

Ventnor.  Thin,  thin — the  troubadour  tinkle.  Odd 
how  little  promise  there  is  in  first  volumes! 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  irresistible  emphasis}.  I  thought  there 
was  a  distinct  promise  in  this! 

Ventnor  (seeing  his  nAstake).  Ah — the  one  you  would 
never  let  me  fulfil?  (Sentimentally.)  How  inexorable  you 
were!  You  never  dedicated  a  book  to  me. 

Mrs.  Dale.  I  had  n't  begun  to  write  when  we  were 
— dedicating  things  to  each  other. 

Ventnor.  Not  for  the  public — but  you  wrote  for  me; 
and,  wonderful  as  you  are,  you  've  never  written  any 
thing  since  that  I  care  for  half  as  much  as — 

Mrs.  Dale  (interested}.  Well? 

Ventnor.  Your  letters. 

Mrs.  Dale  (in  a  changed  voice).  My  letters — do  you 
remember  them? 

Ventnor.  When  I  don't,  I  reread  them. 

Mrs.  Dale  (incredulous).  You  have  them  still? 
[106] 


"COPY" 

Ventnor  (unguardedly).  You  haven't  mine,  then? 
Mrs.  Dale  (playfully).  Oh,  you  were  a  celebrity  al 
ready.  Of  course  I  kept  them!  (Smiling.)  Think  what 
they  are  worth  now!  I  always  keep  them  locked  up  in 
my  safe  over  there.  ( She  indicates  a  cabinet.) 

Ventnor  (after  a  pause).  I  always  carry  yours  with  me. 
Mrs.  Dale  (laughing).  You  — 

Ventnor.  Wherever  I  go.  (A  longer  pause.  She  looks  at 
himjlxedly.)  I  have  them  with  me  now. 

Mrs.  Dale  (agitated).  You  — have  them  with  you— 
now? 

Ventnor  (embarrassed).  Why  not?  One  never  knows 

Mrs.  Dale.  Never  knows — ? 

Ventnor  (humorously).   Gad— when  the   bank-exam 
iner  may  come  round.  You  forget  I  'm  a  married  man. 
Mrs.  Dale.  Ah— yes. 

Ventnor  (sits  down  beside  her).  I  speak  to  you  as  I 
couldn't  to  anyone  else— without  deserving  a  kicking. 
You  know  how  it  all  came  about.  (A  pause.)  You  '11  bear 

witness  that  it  wasn't  till  you  denied  me  all  hope 

Mrs.  Dale  (a  little  breathless).  Yes,  yes— 
Ventnor.  Till  you  sent  me  from  you— 
Mrs.  Dale.  It's  so  easy  to  be  heroic  when  one  is 
young!  One  doesn't  realize  how  long  life  is  going  to 
last  afterward.  (Musing.)  Nor  what  weary  work  it  is 
gathering  up  the  fragments. 

Ventnor.  But  the  time  comes  when  one  sends  for  the 
[107] 


"COPY1 

china-mender,  and  has  the  bits  riveted  together,  and 
turns  the  cracked  side  to  the  wall  — 

Mrs.  Dale.  And  denies  that  the  article  was  ever 
damaged  ? 

Ventnor.  Eh?  Well,  the  great  thing,  you  see,  is  to 
keep  one's  self  out  of  reach  of  the  housemaid's  brush. 
(A  pause.)  If  you're  married  you  can't — always.  (Smil 
ing.)  Don't  you  hate  to  be  taken  down  and  dusted? 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  intention).  You  forget  how  long  ago 
my  husband  died.  It's  fifteen  years  since  I've  been  an 
object  of  interest  to  anybody  but  the  public. 

Ventnor  (smiling).  The  only  one  of  your  admirers  to 
whom  you've  ever  given  the  least  encouragement! 

Mrs.  Dale.  Say  rather  the  most  easily  pleased! 

Ventnor.  Or  the  only  one  you  cared  to  please? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Ah,  you  haven't  kept  my  letters! 

Ventnor  (gravely ).  Is  that  a  challenge?  Look  here, 
then!  (He  draws  a  packet  from  his  pocket  and  holds  it  out 
to  her.) 

Mrs.  Dale  (taking  the  packet  and  looking  at  him  ear 
nestly).  Why  have  you  brought  me  these? 

Ventnor.  I  didn't  bring  them;  they  came  because  I 
came  —  that's  all.  (Tentatively.)  Are  we  unwelcome? 

Mrs.  Dale  (who  has  undone  the  packet  and  does  not 
appear  to  hear  him).  The  very  first  I  ever  wrote  you — 
the  day  after  we  met  at  the  concert.  How  on  earth  did 
you  happen  to  keep  it?  (She  glances  over  it.)  How 

t   108  1 


"COPY' 

perfectly  absurd!  Well,  it's  not  a  compromising  docu 
ment. 

Ventnor.  I  'm  afraid  none  of  them  are. 
Mrs.  Dale  (quickly).  Is  it  to  that  they  owe  their 
immunity?  Because  one  could  leave  them  about  like 
safety  matches?  —  Ah,  here  's  another  I  remember — I 
wrote  that  the  day  after  we  went  skating  together  for 
the  first  time.  (She  reads  it  slowly.)  How  odd!  How  very 
odd! 

Ventnor.  What? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Why,  it's  the  most  curious  thing — I  had 
a  letter  of  this  kind  to  do  the  other  day,  in  the  novel 
I'm  at  work  on  now  —  the  letter  of  a  woman  who  is 
just — just  beginning — 

Ventnor.  Yes — just  beginning — ? 

Mrs.  Dale.  And,  do  you  know,  I  find  the  best  phrase 
in  it,  the  phrase  I  somehow  regarded  as  the  fruit  of— 
well,  of  all  my  subsequent  discoveries — is  simply  pla 
giarized,  word  for  word,  from  this ! 

Ventnor  (eagerly).  I  told  you  so!  You  were  all  there! 

Mrs.  Dale  (critically).  But  the  rest  of  it's  poorly 
done  —  very  poorly.  (Reads  the  letter  over.)  H'm — I 
did  n't  know  how  to  leave  off.  It  takes  me  forever  to 
get  out  of  the  door. 

Ventnor  (gayly).  Perhaps  I  was  there  to  prevent  you! 
(After  a  pause.)  I  wonder  what  I  said  in  return  ? 

Mrs.   Dale  (interested).   Shall   we    look?  (She  rises.) 

[  109  J 


"COPY" 

Shall   we— really?   I   have   them  all   here,  you  know. 
(She  goes  toward  the  cabinet.) 

Ventnor  (following  her  with  repressed  eagerness).  Oh — 
all! 

Mrs.  Dale  (throws  open  the  door  of  the  cabinet,  reveal 
ing  a  number  of  packets).  Don't  you  believe  me  now? 

Ventnor.  Good  heavens!  How  I  must  have  repeated 
myself!  But  then  you  were  so  very  deaf. 

Mrs.  Dale  (takes  out  a  packet  and  returns  to  her  seat. 
Ventnor  extends  an  impatient  hand  for  the  letters).  No — no; 
wait!  I  want  to  find  your  answer  to  the  one  I  was  just 
reading.  (After  a  pause.)  Here  it  is— yes,  I  thought  so! 

Ventnor.  What  did  you  think? 

Mrs.  Dale  (triumphantly).  I  thought  it  was  the  one 
in  which  you  quoted  Epipsychidion — 

Ventnor.  Mercy!  Did  I  quote  things?  I  don't  wonder 
you  were  cruel. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Ah,  and  here's  the  other — the  one  I — 
the  one  I  didn't  answer — for  a  long  time.  Do  you  re 
member? 

Ventnor  (with  emotion).  Do  I  remember?  I  wrote  it 
the  morning  after  we  heard  Isolde — 

Mrs.  Dale  (disappointed).  No  —  no.  That  wasn't  the 
one  I  didn't  answer!  Here  —  this  is  the  one  I  mean. 

Ventnor  (takes  it  curiously).  Ah — h'm — this  is  very 
like  unrolling  a  mummy — (he  glances  at  her) — with  a 
live  grain  of  wheat  in  it,  perhaps? —  Oh,  by  Jove! 
[110] 


Mrs.  Dale.  What? 

Ventnor.  Why,  this  is  the  one  I  made  a  sonnet  out 
of  afterward!  By  Jove,  I  'd  forgotten  where  that  idea 
came  from.  You  may  know  the  lines  perhaps?  They're 
in  the  fourth  volume  of  my  Complete  Edition  — It's  the 
thing  beginning 

Love  came  to  me  with  unrelenting:  eves 

O      <7 

one  of  my  best,  I  rather  fancy.  Of  course,  here  it's 
very  crudely  put— the  values  aren't  brought  out— ah! 
this  touch  is  good  though— very  good.  H'm,  I  daresay 
there  might  be  other  material.  (He  glances  toward  the 
cabinet.) 

Mrs.  Dale  (drily).  The  live  grain  of  wheat,  as  you 
said! 

Ventnor.  Ah,  well  — my  first  harvest  was  sown  on 
rocky  ground— now  I  plant  for  the  fowls  of  the  air. 
(Rising  and  walking  toward  the  cabinet.)  WThen  can  I 
come  and  carry  off  all  this  rubbish? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Carry  it  off? 

Ventnor  (embarrassed).  My  dear  lady,  surely  between 
you  and  me  explicitness  is  a  burden.  You  must  see  that 
these  letters  of  ours  can't  be  left  to  take  their  chance 
like  an  ordinary  correspondence— you  said  yourself  we 
were  public  property. 

Mrs.  Dale.  To  take  their  chance?  Do  you  suppose 
that,  in  my  keeping,  your  letters  take  any  chances? 
(Suddenly.)  Do  mine — in  yours? 

[in] 


"COPY' 

Ventnor  (still  more  embarrassed).  Helen  — !  (He  takes 
a  turn  through  the  room.)  You  force  me  to  remind  you 
that  you  and  I  are  differently  situated — that  in  a  mo 
ment  of  madness  I  sacrificed  the  only  right  you  ever 
gave  me — the  right  to  love  you  better  than  any  other 
woman  in  the  world.  ( A  pause.  She  says  nothing  and  he 
continues,  with  increasing  difficulty — )  You  asked  me  just 
now  why  I  carried  your  letters  about  with  me — kept 
them,  literally,  in  my  own  hands.  Well,  suppose  it 's  to 
be  sure  of  their  not  falling  into  some  one  else's  ? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Oh! 

Ventnor  (throws  himself  into  a  chair).  For  God's  sake 
don't  pity  me! 

Mrs.  Dale  (after  a  long  pause).  Am  I  dull — or  are 
you  trying  to  say  that  you  want  to  give  me  back  my 
letters? 

Ventnor  (starting  up).  I  ?  Give  you  back  —  ?  God  for 
bid!  Your  letters?  Not  for  the  world!  The  only  thing  I 
have  left!  But  you  can't  dream  that  in  my  hands  — 

Mrs.  Dale  (suddenly).  You  want  yours,  then  ? 

Ventnor  (repressing  his  eagerness).  My  dear  friend,  if 
I  'd  ever  dreamed  that  you  'd  kept  them  —  ? 

Mrs.  Dale  (accusingly).  You  do  want  them.  (A  pause. 
He  makes  a  deprecatory  gesture.)  Why  should  they  be 
less  safe  with  me  than  mine  with  you  ?  /  never  forfeited 
the  right  to  keep  them. 

Ventnor  (after  another  pause).  It 's  compensation 
[112] 


"COPY" 

enough,  almost,  to  have  you  reproach  me  !  (He  moves 
nearer  to  her,  but  she  makes  no  response.)  You  forget  that 
I've  forfeited  all  my  rights  — even  that  of  letting  you 
keep  my  letters. 

Mrs.  Dale.  You  do  want  them!  (She  rises,  throws  all 
the  letters  into  the  cabinet,  locks  the  door  and  puts  the  key 
in  her  pocket.)  There  's  my  answer. 
Ventnor.  Helen  — ! 

Mrs.  Dale.  Ah,  I  paid  dearly  enough  for  the  right  to 
keep  them,  and  I  mean  to!  (She  turns  to  him  passion 
ately.)  Have  you  ever  asked  yourself  how  I  paid  for 
it?  With  what  months  and  years  of  solitude,  what  indif 
ference  to  flattery,  what  resistance  to  affection?  — Oh, 
don't  smile  because  I  said  affection,  and  not  love.  Af 
fection 's  a  warm  cloak  in  cold  weather;  and  I  have 
been  cold;  and  I  shall  keep  on  growing  colder!  Don't 
talk  to  me  about  living  in  the  hearts  of  my  readers!  We 
both  know  what  kind  of  a  domicile  that  is.  Why,  before 
long  I  shall  become  a  classic!  Bound  in  sets  and  kept 
on  the  top  book-shelf— brr,  doesn't  that  sound  freez 
ing?  I  foresee  the  day  when  I  shall  be  as  lonely  as  an 
Etruscan  museum!  (She  breaks  into  a  laugh.)  That's 
what  I  've  paid  for  the  right  to  keep  your  letters.  (She 
holds  out  her  hand.)  And  now  give  me  mine. 
Ventnor.  Yours? 

Mrs.  Dale  (haughtily}.  Yes;  I  claim  them. 
Ventnor  (in  the  same  tone).  On  what  ground  ? 
[113] 


Mrs.  Dale.  Hear  the  man!  —  Because  I  wrote  them, 
of  course. 

Ventnor.  But  it  seems  to  me  that — under  your  inspi 
ration,  I  admit — I  also  wrote  mine. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Oh,  I  don't  dispute  their  authenticity — 
it's  yours  I  deny! 

Ventnor.  Mine? 

Mrs.  Dale.  You  voluntarily  ceased  to  be  the  man 
who  wrote  me  those  letters — you've  admitted  as 
much.  You  traded  paper  for  flesh  and  blood.  I  don't 
dispute  your  wisdom — only  you  must  hold  to  your 
bargain!  The  letters  are  all  mine. 

Ventnor  (groping  between  two  tones).  Your  arguments 
are  as  convincing  as  ever.  (He  hazards  a  faint  laugh.) 
You're  a  marvellous  dialectician — but,  if  we're  going 
to  settle  the  matter  in  the  spirit  of  an  arbitration  treaty, 
why,  there  are  accepted  conventions  in  such  cases.  It 's 
an  odious  way  to  put  it,  but  since  you  won't  help  me, 
one  of  them  is — 

Mrs.  Dale.  One  of  them  is — ? 

Ventnor.  That  it  is  usual — that  technically,  I  mean, 
the  letter — belongs  to  its  writer — 

Mrs.  Dale  (after  a  pause).  Such  letters  as  these? 

Ventnor.  Such  letters  especially  — 

Mrs.  Dale.  But  you  could  n't  have  written  them  if  I 
hadn't — been  willing  to  read  them.  Surely  there's 
more  of  myself  in  them  than  of  you. 


"COPY' 

Ventnor.  Surely  there 's  nothing  in  which  a  man  puts 
more  of  himself  than  in  his  love-letters ! 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  emotion).  But  a  woman's  love-letters 
are  like  her  child.  They  belong  to  her  more  than  to 
anybody  else  — 

Ventnor.  And  a  man's? 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  sudden  violence).  Are  all  he  risks!  — 
There,  take  them.  (She  flings  the  key  of  the  cabinet  at  his 
feet  and  sinks  into  a  chair.) 

Ventnor  (starts  as  though  to  pick  up  the  key;  then  ap 
proaches  and  bends  over  her).  Helen — oh,  Helen! 

Mrs.  Dale  (she  yields  her  hands  to  him,  murmuring:) 
Paul!  (Suddenly  she  straightens  herself  and  draws  back 
illuminated.)  What  a  fool  I  am!  I  see  it  all  now.  You 
want  them  for  your  memoirs! 

Ventnor  (disconcerted).  Helen — 

Mrs.  Dale  (agitated).  Come,  come — the  rule  is  to 
unmask  when  the  signal 's  given !  You  want  them  for 
your  memoirs. 

Ventnor  (with  a  forced  laugh).  What  makes  you  think  so  ? 

Mrs.  Dale  (triumphantly).  Because  /  want  them  for 
mine! 

Ventnor  (in  a  changed  tone).  Ah — .  (He  moves  away 
from  her  and  leans  against  the  mantelpiece.  She  remains 
seated,  with  her  eyes  Jixed  on  him.) 

Mrs.  Dale.  I  wonder  I  didn't  see  it  sooner.  Your 
reasons  were  lame  enough. 

[115] 


"COPY*' 

Ventnor  (ironically).  Yours  were  masterly.  You  're  the 
more  accomplished  actor  of  the  two.  I  was  completely 
deceived. 

Mrs.  Dale.  Oh,  I 'm  a  novelist.  I  can  keep  up  that 
sort  of  thing  for  five  hundred  pages! 

Ventnor.  I  congratulate  you.  (A  pause.) 

Mrs.  Dale  (moving  to  her  seat  behind  the  tea-table). 
I've  never  offered  you  any  tea.  (She  bends  over  the 
kettle.)  Why  don't  you  take  your  letters? 

Ventnor.  Because  you  've  been  clever  enough  to  make 
it  impossible  for  me.  (He  picks  up  the  key  and  hands  it  to 
her.  Then  abruptly) — Was  it  all  acting — just  now? 

Mrs.  Dale.  By  what  right  do  you  ask? 

Ventnor.  By  right  of  renouncing  my  claim  to  my  let 
ters.  Keep  them —and  tell  me. 

Mrs.  Dale.  I  give  you  back  your  claim— and  I  refuse 
to  tell  you. 

Ventnor  (sadly).  Ah,  Helen,  if  you  deceived  me,  you 
deceived  yourself  also. 

Mrs.  Dale.  What  does  it  matter,  now  that  we're 
both  undeceived?  I  played  a  losing  game,  that's  all. 

Ventnor.  Why  losing — since  all  the  letters  are  yours? 

Mrs.  Dak.  The  letters?  (Slowly.)  I'd  forgotten  the 
letters— 

Ventnor  (exultant).  Ah,  I  knew  you  'd  end  by  telling 
me  the  truth! 

Mrs.  Dak.  The  truth?  Where  is  the  truth ?  (Half  to 
[  116] 


"COPY*1 

herself.)  I  thought  I  was  lying  when  I  began — but  the 
lies  turned  into  truth  as  I  uttered  them!  (She  looks  at 

Ventnor.)  I  did  want  your  letters  for  my  memoirs I 

did  think  I'd  kept  them  for  that  purpose— and  I 
wanted  to  get  mine  back  for  the  same  reason  — but 
now  (she  puts  out  her  hand  and  picks  up  some  of  her  let 
ters,  which  are  lying  scattered  on  the  table  near  her) how 

fresh  they  seem,,  and  how  they  take  me  back  to  the 
time  when  we  lived  instead  of  writing  about  life! 

Ventnor  (smiling).  The  time  when  we  did  n't  prepare 
our  impromptu  effects  beforehand  and  copyright  our 
remarks  about  the  weather! 

Mrs.  Dale.  Or  keep  our  epigrams  in  cold  storage  and 
our  adjectives  under  lock  and  key! 

Ventnor.  When  our  emotions  were  n't  worth  ten  cents 
a  word,  and  a  signature  wasn't  an  autograph.  Ah, 
Helen,  after  all,  there's  nothing  like  the  exhilaration 
of  spending  one's  capital! 

Mrs.  Dale.  Of  wasting  it,  you  mean.  (She  points  to 
the  letters.)  Do  you  suppose  we  could  have  written  a 
word  of  these  if  we'd  known  we  were  putting  our 
dreams  out  at  interest?  (She  sits  musing,  with  her  eyes  on 
thejire,  and  he  watches  her  in  silence.)  Paul,  do  you  re 
member  the  deserted  garden  we  sometimes  used  to 
walk  in? 

Ventnor.  The  old  garden  with  the  high  wall  at  the 
end  of  the  village  street?  The  garden  with  the  ruined 


"COPY' 

box-borders  and  the  broken-down  arbor?  Why,  I  re 
member  every  weed  in  the  paths  and  every  patch  of 
moss  on  the  walls! 

Mrs.  Dale.  Well — I  went  back  there  the  other  day. 
The  village  is  immensely  improved.  There 's  a  new 
hotel  with  gas-fires,  and  a  trolley  in  the  main  street; 
and  the  garden  has  been  turned  into  a  public  park, 
where  excursionists  sit  on  cast-iron  benches  admiring 
the  statue  of  an  Abolitionist. 

Ventnor.  An  Abolitionist — how  appropriate! 

Mrs.  Dale.  And  the  man  who  sold  the  garden  has 
made  a  fortune  that  he  doesn't  know  how  to  spend — 

Ventnor  (rising  impulsively).  Helen,  (he  approaches 
and  lays  his  hand  on  her  letters ),  let 's  sacrifice  our  for 
tune  and  keep  the  excursionists  out! 

Mrs.  Dale  (with  a  responsive  movement).  Paul,  do  you 
really  mean  it? 

Ventnor  (gayly).  Mean  it?  Why,  I  feel  like  a  landed 
proprietor  already!  It's  more  than  a  garden — it's  a 
park. 

Mrs.  Dale.  It's  more  than  a  park,  it's  a  world — as 
long  as  we  keep  it  to  ourselves! 

Ventnor  Ah,  yes — even  the  pyramids  look  small 
when  one  sees  a  Cook's  tourist  on  top  of  them!  (He 
takes  the  key  from  the  table,  unlocks  the  cabinet  and  brings 
out  his  letters,  which  he  lays  beside  hers.)  Shall  we  burn 
the  key  to  our  garden? 


"COPY" 

Mrs.  Dale.  Ah,  then  it  will  indeed  be  boundless! 
(Watching  him  while  he  throws  the  letters  into  thejire.) 

Ventnor  (turning  back  to  her  with  a  half -sad  smile). 
But  not  too  big  for  us  to  find  each  other  in? 

Mrs.  Dale.  Since  we  shall  be  the  only  people  there! 
(He  takes  both  her  hands  and  they  look  at  each  other  a  mo 
ment  in  silence.  Then  he  goes  out  by  the  door  to  the  right. 
As  he  reaches  the  door  she  takes  a  step  toward  him,  impul 
sively;  then  turning  back  she  leans  against  the  chimney- 
piece,  quietly  matching  the  letters  burn. ) 


T  H  £     REMBRANDT 


THE    REMBRANDT 

"^"    YOU'RE  so  artistic/'  my  cousin  Eleanor  Copt 

^|        began. 

•^  Of  all  Eleanor's  exordiums  it  is  the  one  I 

most  dread.  When  she  tells  me  I'm  so  clever  I  know 
this  is  merely  the  preamble  to  inviting  me  to  meet 
the  last  literary  obscurity  of  the  moment:  a  trial  to  be 
evaded  or  endured,  as  circumstances  dictate;  whereas 
her  calling  me  artistic  fatally  connotes  the  request  to 
visit,  in  her  company,  some  distressed  gentlewoman 
whose  future  hangs  on  my  valuation  of  her  old  Saxe 
or  of  her  grandfather's  Marc  Antonios.  Time  was  when 
I  attempted  to  resist  these  compulsions  of  Eleanor's; 
but  I  soon  learned  that,  short  of  actual  flight,  there 
was  no  refuge  from  her  beneficent  despotism.  It  is  not 
always  easy  for  the  curator  of  a  museum  to  abandon 
his  post  on  the  plea  of  escaping  a  pretty  cousin's  im 
portunities;  and  Eleanor,  aware  of  my  predicament,  is 
none  too  magnanimous  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Mag 
nanimity  is,  in  fact,  not  in  Eleanor's  line.  The  virtues, 
she  once  explained  to  me,  are  like  bonnets:  the  very 
ones  that  look  best  on  other  people  may  not  happen  to 
suit  one's  own  particular  style;  and  she  added,  with  a 
slight  deflection  of  metaphor,  that  none  of  the  ready- 
made  virtues  ever  had  fitted  her:  they  all  pinched  some- 
[  123] 


THE    REMBRANDT 

where,  and  she  'd  given  up  trying  to  wear  them. 

Therefore  when  she  said  to  me,  "  You  're  so  artistic," 
emphasizing  the  conjunction  with  a  tap  of  her  dripping 
umbrella  (Eleanor  is  out  in  all  weathers:  the  elements 
are  as  powerless  against  her  as  man),  I  merely  stipu 
lated,  "It's  not  old  Saxe  again?" 

She  shook  her  head  reassuringly.  "A  picture — a 
Rembrandt!" 

"Good  Lord!  Why  not  a  Leonardo?" 
"Well" — she  smiled — "that,  of  course,  depends  on 
you." 

"On  me?" 

"On  your  attribution.  I  dare  say  Mrs.  Fontage  would 
consent  to  the  change — though  she's  very  conserva 
tive." 

A  gleam  of  hope  came  to  me  and   I  pronounced: 
"One  can't  judge  of  a  picture  in  this  weather." 
"Of  course  not.  I'm  coming  for  you  to-morrow." 
"I've  an  engagement  to-morrow." 
"I'll  come  before  or  after  your  engagement." 
The  afternoon  paper  lay  at  my  elbow  and  I  contrived 
a  furtive   consultation  of  the   weather-report.    It  said 
"Rain  to-morrow,"  and  I  answered  briskly:  "All  right, 
then;  come  at  ten" — rapidly  calculating  that  the  clouds 
on  which  I  counted  might  lift  by  noon. 

My  ingenuity  failed  of  its  due  reward;  for  the  heav 
ens,  as  if  in  league  with  my  cousin,  emptied  themselves 
[124] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

before  morning,  and  punctually  at  ten  Eleanor  and  the 
sun  appeared  together  in  my  office. 

I  hardly  listened,  as  we  descended  the  Museum  steps 
and  got  into  Eleanor's  hansom,  to  her  vivid  summing-up 
of  the  case.  I  guessed  beforehand  that  the  lady  we  were 
about  to  visit  had  lapsed  by  the  most  distressful  degrees 
from  opulence  to  a  "hall-bedroom";  that  her  grandfa 
ther,  if  he  had  not  been  Minister  to  France,  had  signed 
the  Declaration  of  Independence;  that  the  Rembrandt 
was  an  heirloom,  sole  remnant  of  disbanded  treasures; 
that  for  years  its  possessor  had  been  unwilling  to  part 
with  it,  and  that  even  now  the  question  of  its  disposal 
must  be  approached  with  the  most  diplomatic  obliquity. 

Previous  experience  had  taught  me  that  all  Eleanor's 
ts cases"  presented  a  harrowing  similarity  of  detail.  No 
circumstance  tending  to  excite  the  spectator's  sympathy 
and  involve  his  action  was  omitted  from  the  history  of 
her  beneficiaries;  the  lights  and  shades  were  indeed  so 
skilfully  adjusted  that  any  impartial  expression  of  opin 
ion  took  on  the  hue  of  cruelty.  I  could  have  produced 
closetfuls  of  "heirlooms"  in  attestation  of  this  fact;  for 
it  is  one  more  mark  of  Eleanor's  competence  that  her 
friends  usually  pay  the  interest  on  her  philanthropy. 
My  one  hope  was  that  in  this  case  the  object,  being  a 
picture,  might  reasonably  be  rated  beyond  my  means; 
and  as  our  cab  drew  up  before  a  blistered  brown-stone 
door-step  I  formed  the  self-defensive  resolve  to  place 


THE     REMBRANDT 

an  extreme  valuation  on  Mrs.  Pontage's  Rembrandt.  It 
is  Eleanor's  fault  if  she  is  sometimes  fought  with  her 
own  weapons. 

The  house  stood  in  one  of  those  shabby  provisional- 
looking  New  York  streets  that  seem  resignedly  await 
ing  demolition.  It  was  the  kind  of  house  that,  in  its  high 
days,  must  have  had  a  bow-window  with  a  bronze  in  it. 
The  bow-window  had  been  replaced  by  a  plumber's 
devanture,  and  one  might  conceive  the  bronze  to  have 
gravitated  to  the  limbo  where  Mexican  onyx  tables 
and  bric-a-brac  in  buffalo-horn  await  the  first  signs  of 
our  next  aesthetic  reaction. 

Eleanor  swept  me  through  a  hall  that  smelled  of 
poverty,  up  unlit  stairs  to  a  bare  slit  of  a  room.  "And 
she  must  leave  this  in  a  month!"  she  whispered  across 
her  knock. 

I  had  prepared  myself  for  the  limp  widow's  weed 
of  a  woman  that  one  figures  in  such  a  setting;  and 
confronted  abruptly  with  Mrs.  Fontage's  white-haired 
erectness  I  had  the  disconcerting  sense  that  I  was 
somehow  in  her  presence  at  my  own  solicitation.  I 
instinctively  charged  Eleanor  with  this  reversal  of  the 
situation;  but  a  moment  later  I  saw  it  must  be  ascribed 
to  a  something  about  Mrs.  Fontage  that  precluded  the 
possibility  of  her  asking  any  one  a  favor.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  of  forbidding,  or  even  majestic,  demeanor; 
but  that  one  guessed,  under  her  aquiline  prettiness,  a 
[  126  J 


THE     REMBRANDT 

dignity  nervously  on  guard  against  the  petty  betrayal 
of  her  surroundings.  The  room  was  unconcealably  poor : 
the  little  faded  "relics/'  the  high-stocked  ancestral 
silhouettes,  the  steel-engravings  after  Raphael  and 
Correggio,  grouped  in  a  vain  attempt  to  hide  the  most 
obvious  stains  on  the  wall-paper,  served  only  to  accen 
tuate  the  contrast  of  a  past  evidently  diversified  by  for 
eign  travel  and  the  enjoyment  of  the  arts.  Even  Mrs. 
Fontage's  dress  had  the  air  of  being  a  last  expedient, 
the  ultimate  outcome  of  a  much-taxed  ingenuity  in 
darning  and  turning.  One  felt  that  all  the  poor  lady's 
barriers  were  falling  save  that  of  her  impregnable  man 
ner. 

To  this  manner  I  found  myself  conveying  my  appre 
ciation  of  being  admitted  to  a  view  of  the  Rembrandt. 

Mrs.  Fontage's  smile  took  my  homage  for  granted. 
"It  is  always,"  she  conceded,  "a  privilege  to  be  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  masters."  Her  slim  wrinkled  hand 
waved  me  to  a  dusky  canvas  near  the  window. 

"It's  so  interesting,  dear  Mrs.  Fontage,"  I  heard 
Eleanor  exclaiming,  "and  my  cousin  will  be  able  to  tell 
you  exactly—  "  Eleanor,  in  my  presence,  always  admits 
that  she  knows  nothing  about  art;  but  she  gives  the 
impression  that  this  is  merely  because  she  hasn't  had 
time  to  look  into  the  matter — and  has  had  me  to  do  it 
for  her. 

Mrs.  Fontage  seated  herself  without  speaking,  as 
[  127] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

though  fearful  that  a  breath  might  disturb  my  com 
munion  with  the  masterpieceo  I  felt  that  she  thought 
Eleanor's  reassuring  ejaculations  ill-timed;  and  in  this 
I  was  of  one  mind  with  her;  for  the  impossibility  of 
telling  her  exactly  what  I  thought  of  her  Rembrandt 
had  become  clear  to  me  at  a  glance. 

My  cousin's  vivacities  began  to  languish  and  the  si 
lence  seemed  to  shape  itself  into  a  receptacle  for  my 
verdict.  I  stepped  back,  affecting  a  more  distant  scru 
tiny;  and  as  I  did  so  my  eye  caught  Mrs.  Pontage's 
profile.  Her  lids  trembled  slightly.  I  took  refuge  in  the 
familiar  expedient  of  asking  the  history  of  the  picture, 
and  she  waved  me  brightly  to  a  seat. 

This  was  indeed  a  topic  on  which  she  could  dilate. 
The  Rembrandt,  it  appeared,  had  come  into  Mr.  Fon- 
tage's  possession  many  years  ago,  while  the  young 
couple  were  on  their  wedding-tour,  and  under  circum 
stances  so  romantic  that  she  made  no  excuse  for  relat 
ing  them  in  all  their  parenthetic  fulness.  The  picture 
belonged  to  an  old  Belgian  Countess  of  redundant  quar- 
terings,  whom  the  extravagances  of  an  ungovernable 
nephew  had  compelled  to  part  with  her  possessions  (in 
the  most  private  manner)  about  the  time  of  the  Pon 
tages'  arrival.  By  a  really  remarkable  coincidence,  it 
happened  that  their  courier  (an  exceptionally  intelli 
gent  and  superior  man)  was  an  old  servant  of  the 
Countess's,  and  had  thus  been  able  to  put  them  in 
[  128  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

the  way  of  securing  the  Rembrandt  under  the  very 
nose  of  an  English  Duke,  whose  agent  had  been  sent 
to  Brussels  to  negotiate  for  its  purchase.  Mrs.  Fontage 
could  not  recall  the  Duke's  name,  but  he  was  a  great 
collector  and  had  a  famous  Highland  castle,  where 
somebody  had  been  murdered,  and  which  she  herself 
had  visited  (by  moonlight)  when  she  had  travelled  in 
Scotland  as  a  girl.  The  episode  had  in  short  been  one 
of  the  most  interesting  "experiences"  of  a  tour  almost 
chromo-lithographic  in  vivacity  of  impression;  and  they 
had  always  meant  to  go  back  to  Brussels  for  the  sake 
of  reliving  so  picturesque  a  moment.  Circumstances  (of 
which  the  narrator's  surroundings  declared  the  nature) 
had  persistently  interfered  with  the  projected  return  tc 
Europe,  and  the  picture  had  grown  doubly  valuable  as 
representing  the  high-water  mark  of  their  artistic  emo 
tions.  Mrs.  Fontage' s  moist  eye  caressed  the  canvas. 
"There  is  only,"  she  added  with  a  perceptible  effort, 
"one  slight  drawback:  the  picture  is  not  signed.  But 
for  that  the  Countess,  of  course,  would  have  sold  it  to 
a  museum.  All  the  connoisseurs  who  have  seen  it  pro 
nounce  it  an  undoubted  Rembrandt,  in  the  artist's  best 
manner;  but  the  museums"  —  she  arched  her  brows  in 
smiling  recognition  of  a  well-known  weakness — "give 
the  preference  to  signed  examples  — 

Mrs.  Fontage' s  words  evoked  so  touching  a  vision  of 
the  young  tourists  of  fifty  years  ago,  entrusting  to  an 
[  129] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

accomplished  and  versatile  courier  the  direction  of 
their  helpless  zeal  for  art,  that  I  lost  sight  for  a  mo 
ment  of  the  point  at  issue.  The  old  Belgian  Countess, 
the  wealthy  Duke  with  a  feudal  castle  in  Scotland, 
Mrs.  Fontage's  own  maiden  pilgrimage  to  Arthur's  Seat 
and  Holyrood,  all  the  accessories  of  the  naif  transac 
tion,  seemed  a  part  of  that  vanished  Europe  to  which 
our  young  race  carried  its  indiscriminate  ardors,  its 
tender  romantic  credulity:  the  legendary  castellated 
Europe  of  keepsakes,  brigands  and  old  masters,  that 
compensated,  by  one  such  " experience"  as  Mrs.  Fon 
tage's,  for  an  after-life  of  aesthetic  privation. 

I  was  restored  to  the  present  by  Eleanor's  looking 
at  her  watch.  The  action  mutely  conveyed  that  some 
thing  was  expected  of  me.  I  risked  the  temporizing 
statement  that  the  picture  was  very  interesting;  but 
Mrs.  Fontage's  polite  assent  revealed  the  poverty  of 
the  expedient.  Eleanor's  impatience  overflowed. 

"You  would  like  my  cousin  to  give  you  an  idea  of 
its  value?"  she  suggested. 

Mrs.  Fontage  grew  more  erect.  "No  one,"  she  cor 
rected  with  great  gentleness,  "can  know  its  value  quite 
as  well  as  I,  who  live  with  it — " 

We  murmured  our  hasty  concurrence. 

"But   it   might   be   interesting   to   hear"— she   ad 
dressed  herself  to  me — "as  a  mere  matter  of  curiosity 
— what  estimate  would  be  put  on  it  from  the  purely 
[  130  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

commercial  point  of  view — if  such  a  term  may  be  used 
in  speaking  of  a  work  of  art." 

I  sounded  a  note  of  deprecation. 

"Oh,  I  understand,  of  course,"  she  delicately  antici 
pated  me,  "that  that  could  never  be  your  view,  your 
personal  view;  but  since  occasions  may  arise — do  arise 
— when  it  becomes  necessary  to — to  put  a  price  on 
the  priceless,  as  it  were — I  have  thought — Miss  Copt 
has  suggested — 

"Some  day,"  Eleanor  encouraged  her,  "you  might 
feel  that  the  picture  ought  to  belong  to  some  one  who 
has  more — more  opportunity  of  showing  it — letting  it 
be  seen  by  the  public — for  educational  reasons  — " 

"I  have  tried,"  Mrs.  Fontage  admitted,  "to  see  it  in 
that  light." 

The  crucial  moment  was  upon  me.  To  escape  the  chal 
lenge  of  Mrs.  Pontage's  brilliant  composure  I  turned 
once  more  to  the  picture.  If  my  courage  needed  rein 
forcement,  the  picture  amply  furnished  it.  Looking 
at  that  lamentable  canvas  seemed  the  surest  way  of 
gathering  strength  to  denounce  it;  but  behind  me,  all 
the  while,  I  felt  Mrs.  Pontage's  shuddering  pride 
drawn  up  in  a  final  effort  of  self-defense.  I  hated  my 
self  for  my  sentimental  perversion  of  the  situation. 
Reason  argued  that  it  was  more  cruel  to  deceive  Mrs. 
Fontage  than  to  tell  her  the  truth;  but  that  merely 
proved  the  inferiority  of  reason  to  instinct  in  situations 


THE     REMBRANDT 

involving  any  concession  to  the  emotions.  Along  with 
her  faith  in  the  Rembrandt  I  must  destroy  not  only  the 
whole  fabric  of  Mrs.  Pontage's  past,  but  even  that  life 
long  habit  of  acquiescence  in  untested  formulas  that 
makes  the  best  part  of  the  average  feminine  strength. 
I  guessed  the  episode  of  the  picture  to  be  inextricably 
interwoven  with  the  traditions  and  convictions  which 
served  to  veil  Mrs.  Pontage's  destitution  not  only  from 
others  but  from  herself.  Viewed  in  that  light  the  Rem 
brandt  had  perhaps  been  worth  its  purchase-money; 
and  I  regretted  that  works  of  art  do  not  commonly  sell 
on  the  merit  of  the  moral  support  they  may  have  ren 
dered. 

From  this  unavailing  flight  I  was  recalled  by  the 
sense  that  something  must  be  done.  To  place  a  ficti 
tious  value  on  the  picture  was  at  best  a  provisional 
measure ;  while  the  brutal  alternative  of  advising  Mrs. 
Pontage  to  sell  it  for  a  hundred  dollars  at  least  afforded 
an  opening  to  the  charitably  disposed  purchaser.  I  in 
tended,  if  other  resources  failed,  to  put  myself  forward 
in  that  light;  but  delicacy  of  course  forbade  my  coup 
ling  my  unflattering  estimate  of  the  Rembrandt  with 
an  immediate  offer  to  buy  it.  All  I  could  do  was  to  in 
flict  the  wound:  the  healing  unguent  must  be  withheld 
for  later  application. 

I  turned  to  Mrs.  Pontage,  who  sat  motionless,  her 
/inely-lined  cheeks  touched  with  an  expectant  color, 
[  132  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

her  eyes  averted  from  the  picture  which  was  so  evi 
dently  the  one  object  they  beheld. 

"My  dear  madam —  "  I  began.  Her  vivid  smile  was 
like  a  light  held  up  to  dazzle  me.  It  shrouded  every 
alternative  in  darkness  and  I  had  the  flurried  sense  of 
having  lost  my  way  among  the  intricacies  of  my  con 
tention.  Of  a  sudden  I  felt  the  hopelessness  of  find 
ing  a  crack  in  her  impenetrable  conviction.  My  words 
slipped  from  me  like  broken  weapons.  "The  picture/' 
I  faltered,  "would  of  course  be  worth  more  if  it  were 
signed.  As  it  is,  I  —  I  hardly  think — on  a  conservative 
estimate — it  can  be  valued  at — at  more  —  than — a 
thousand  dollars,  say — 

My  deflected  argument  ran  on  somewhat  aimlessly 
till  it  found  itself  plunging  full  tilt  against  the  barrier 
of  Mrs.  Fontage's  silence.  She  sat  as  impassive  as 
though  I  had  not  spoken.  Eleanor  loosed  a  few  flutter 
ing  words  of  congratulation  and  encouragement,  but 
their  flight  was  suddenly  cut  short.  Mrs.  Fontage  had 
risen  with  a  certain  solemnity. 

"I  could  never,"  she  said  gently  —  her  gentleness 
was  adamantine  —  "under  any  circumstances  whatever, 
consider,  for  a  moment  even,  the  possibility  of  parting 
with  the  picture  at  such  a  price." 


[  133] 


THE    REMBRANDT 

II 

WITHIN  three  weeks  a  tremulous  note  from 
Mrs.  Fontage  requested  the  favor  of  another 
visit.  If  the  writing  was  tremulous,  however,  the  writ 
er's  tone  was  firm.  She  named  her  own  day  and  hour, 
without  the  conventional  reference  to  her  visitor's  con 
venience. 

My  first  impulse  was  to  turn  the  note  over  to  Elea 
nor.  I  had  acquitted  myself  of  my  share  in  the  ungrate 
ful  business  of  coming  to  Mrs.  Fontage' s  aid,  and  if,  as 
her  letter  denoted,  she  had  now  yielded  to  the  closer 
pressure  of  need,  the  business  of  finding  a  purchaser 
for  the  Rembrandt  might  well  be  left  to  my  cousin's 
ingenuity.  But  here  conscience  put  in  the  uncomfort 
able  reminder  that  it  was  I  who,  in  putting  a  price  on 
the  picture,  had  raised  the  real  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
Mrs.  Fontage's  rescue.  No  one  would  give  a  thousand 
dollars  for  the  Rembrandt;  but  to  tell  Mrs.  Fontage  so 
had  become  as  unthinkable  as  murder.  I  had,  in  fact, 
on  returning  from  my  first  inspection  of  the  picture, 
refrained  from  imparting  to  Eleanor  my  opinion  of  its 
value.  Eleanor  is  porous,  and  I  knew  that  sooner  or 
later  the  unnecessary  truth  would  exude  through  the 
loose  texture  of  her  dissimulation.  Not  infrequently  she 
thus  creates  the  misery  she  alleviates;  and  I  have 
sometimes  suspected  her  of  paining  people  in  order 
[  134] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

that  she  might  be  sorry  for  them.  I  had,  at  all  events, 
cut  off  retreat  in  Eleanor's  direction;  and  the  remaining 
alternative  carried  me  straight  to  Mrs.  Fontage. 

She  received  me  with  the  same  commanding  sweet 
ness.  The  room  was  even  barer  than  before — I  believe 
the  carpet  was  gone— but  her  manner  built  up  about 
her  a  palace  to  which  I  was  welcomed  with  high  state ; 
and  it  was  as  a  mere  incident  of  the  ceremony  that  I 
was  presently  made  aware  of  her  decision  to  sell  the 
Rembrandt.  My  previous  unsuccess  in  planning  how  to 
deal  with  Mrs.  Fontage  had  warned  me  to  leave  my 
farther  course  to  chance ;  and  I  listened  to  her  explana 
tion  with  complete  detachment.  She  had  resolved  to 
travel  for  her  health;  her  doctor  advised  it,  and  as  her 
absence  might  be  indefinitely  prolonged  she  had  re 
luctantly  decided  to  part  with  the  picture  in  order  to 
avoid  the  expense  of  storage  and  insurance.  Her  voice 
drooped  at  the  admission,,  and  she  hurried  on,  detailing 
the  vague  itinerary  of  a  journey  that  was  to  combine 
long-promised  visits  to  impatient  friends  with  various 
" interesting  opportunities"  less  definitely  specified. 
The  poor  lady's  skill  in  rearing  a  screen  of  verbiage 
about  her  enforced  avowal  had  distracted  me  from  my 
own  share  in  the  situation,  and  it  was  with  dismay  that 
I  suddenly  caught  the  drift  of  her  assumptions.  She  ex 
pected  me  to  buy  the  Rembrandt  for  the  Museum ;  she 
had  taken  my  previous  valuation  as  a  tentative  bid, 
[135] 


THE    REMBRANDT 

and  when  I  came  to  my  senses  she  was  in  the  act  of 
accepting  my  offer. 

Had  I  had  a  thousand  dollars  of  my  own  to  dispose 
of,  the  bargain  would  have  been  concluded  on  the  spot; 
but  I  was  in  the  impossible  position  of  being  materially 
unable  to  buy  the  picture  and  morally  unable  to  tell 
her  that  it  was  not  worth  acquiring  for  the  Museum. 

I  dashed  into  the  first  evasion  in  sight.  I  had  no  au 
thority,  I  explained,  to  purchase  pictures  for  the  Mu 
seum  without  the  consent  of  the  committee. 

Mrs.  Fontage  coped  for  a  moment  in  silence  with 
the  incredible  fact  that  I  had  rejected  her  offer;  then 
she  ventured,  with  a  kind  of  pale  precipitation:  "But  I 
understood — Miss  Copt  tells  me  that  you  practically 
decide  such  matters  for  the  committee."  I  could  guess 
what  the  effort  had  cost  her. 

"My  cousin  is  given  to  generalizations.  My  opinion 
may  have  some  weight  with  the  committee  — 

"Well,  then —  "  she  timidly  prompted. 

"For  that  very  reason  I  can't  buy  the  picture." 

She  said,  with  a  drooping  note,  "I  don't  understand." 

"Yet  you  told  me,"  I  reminded  her,  "that  you  knew 
museums  didn't  buy  unsigned  pictures." 

"Not  for  what  they  are  worth!  Every  one  knows 
that.  But  I  —  I  understood — the  price  you  named— 
Her  pride  shuddered  back  from  the  abasement.  "It's 
a  misunderstanding  then,"  she  faltered. 
[136] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

To  avoid  looking  at  her,  I  glanced  desperately  at  the 
Rembrandt.  Could  I  —  ?  But  reason  rejected  the  possi 
bility.  Even  if  the  committee  had  been  blind  —  and 
they  all  were  but  Crozier — I  simply  shouldn't  have 
dared  to  do  it.  I  stood  up,  feeling  that  to  cut  the  mat 
ter  short  was  the  only  alleviation  within  reach. 

Mrs.  Fontage  had  summoned  her  indomitable  smile; 
but  its  brilliancy  dropped,  as  I  opened  the  door,  like  a 
candle  blown  out  by  a  draught. 

"If  there's  any  one  else  —  if  you  knew  any  one 
who  would  care  to  see  the  picture,  I  should  be  most 
happy—  "  She  kept  her  eyes  on  me,  and  I  saw  that, 
in  her  case,  it  hurt  less  than  to  look  at  the  Rembrandt. 
"I  shall  have  to  leave  here,  you  know,"  she  panted,  "if 
nobody  cares  to  have  it — 

III 

THAT  evening  at  my  club  I  had  just  succeeded  in 
losing  sight  of  Mrs.  Fontage  in  the  fumes  of  an 
excellent  cigar,  when  a  voice  at  my  elbow  evoked  her 
harassing  image. 

"I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  the  speaker  said,  "about 
Mrs.  Fontage's  Rembrandt." 

"There  isn't  any,"  I  was  about  to  growl;  but  look 
ing  up  I  recognized  the  confiding  countenance  of  Mr. 
Jefferson  Rose. 

Mr.  Rose  was  known  to  me  chiefly  as  a  young  man 
[  137] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

suffused  with  a  vague  enthusiasm  for  Virtue  and  my 
cousin  Eleanor. 

One  glance  at  his  glossy  exterior  conveyed  the  assur 
ance  that  his  morals  were  as  immaculate  as  his  com 
plexion  and  his  linen.  Goodness  exuded  from  his  moist 
eye,  his  liquid  voice,  the  warm  damp  pressure  of  his 
trustful  hand.  He  had  always  struck  me  as  one  of  the 
most  uncomplicated  organisms  I  had  ever  met.  His 
ideas  were  as  simple  and  inconsecutive  as  the  proposi 
tions  in  a  primer,  and  he  spoke  slowly,  with  a  kind  of 
uniformity  of  emphasis  that  made  his  words  stand  out 
like  the  raised  type  for  the  blind.  An  obvious  inca 
pacity  for  abstract  conceptions  made  him  peculiarly 
susceptible  to  the  magic  of  generalization,  and  one  felt 
he  would  have  been  at  the  mercy  of  any  Cause  that 
spelled  itself  with  a  capital  letter.  It  was  hard  to  ex 
plain  how,  with  such  a  superabundance  of  merit,  he 
managed  to  be  a  good  fellow:  I  can  only  say  that  he 
performed  the  astonishing  feat  as  naturally  as  he  sup 
ported  an  invalid  mother  and  two  sisters  on  the  slender 
salary  of  a  banker's  clerk.  He  sat  down  beside  me  with 
an  air  of  bright  expectancy. 

"It's  a  remarkable  picture,  isn't  it?"  he  said. 

"  You  '  ve  seen  it  ?  " 

"I've  been  so  fortunate.  Miss  Copt  was  kind  enough 
to  get  Mrs,  pontage's  permission;  we  went  this  after 
noon." 

[  138  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

I  inwardly  wished  that  Eleanor  had  selected  another 
victim;  unless  indeed  the  visit  were  part  of  a  plan 
whereby  some  third  person,  better  equipped  for  the 
cultivation  of  delusions,  was  to  be  made  to  think  the 
Rembrandt  remarkable.  Knowing  the  limitations  of 
Mr.  Rose's  resources  I  began  to  wonder  if  he  had  any 
rich  aunts. 

" And  her  buying  it  in  that  way,  too,"  he  went  on 
with  his  limpid  smile,  "from  that  old  Countess  in  Brus 
sels,  makes  it  all  the  more  interesting,  doesn't  it?  Miss 
Copt  tells  me  it's  very  seldom  old  pictures  can  be 
traced  back  for  more  than  a  generation.  I  suppose  the 
fact  of  Mrs.  Fontage's  knowing  its  history  must  add  a 
good  deal  to  its  value?" 

Uncertain  as  to  his  drift,  I  said:  "In  her  eyes  it  cer 
tainly  appears  to." 

Implications  are  lost  on  Mr.  Rose,  who  glowingly 
continued:  "That's  the  reason  why  I  wanted  to  talk  to 
you  about  it — to  consult  you.  Miss  Copt  tells  me  you 
value  it  at  a  thousand  dollars." 

There  was  no  denying  this,  and  I  grunted  a  reluc 
tant  assent. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on  earnestly,  "your  valuation 
is  based  on  the  fact  that  the  picture  isn't  signed — 
Mrs.  Fontage  explained  that;  and  it  does  make  a  dif 
ference,  certainly.  But  the  thing  is — if  the  picture's 
really  good — ought  one  to  take  advantage — ?  I  mean 


THE     REMBRANDT 

— one  can  see  that  Mrs.  Foiitage  is  in  a  tight  place, 
and  I  wouldn't  for  the  world— 

My  astonished  stare  arrested  him. 

"You  wouldn't — ?" 

"I  mean — you  see,  it's  just  this  way";  he  coughed 
and  blushed:  "I  can't  give  more  than  a  thousand  dol 
lars  myself — it's  as  big  a  sum  as  I  can  manage  to 
scrape  together — but  before  I  make  the  offer  I  want 
to  be  sure  I  'm  not  standing  in  the  way  of  her  getting 
more  money." 

My  astonishment  lapsed  to  dismay.  "You're  going 
to  buy  the  picture  for  a  thousand  dollars?" 

His  blush  deepened.  "Why,  yes.  It  sounds  rather 
absurd,  I  suppose.  It  is  n't  much  in  my  line,  of  course. 
I  can  see  the  picture's  very  beautiful,  but  I'm  110 
judge — it  isn't  the  kind  of  thing,  naturally,  that  I 
could  afford  to  go  in  for;  but  in  this  case  I'm  very 
glad  to  do  what  I  can;  the  circumstances  are  so  dis 
tressing;  and  knowing  what  you  think  of  the  picture 
I  feel  it's  a  pretty  safe  investment— 

"I  don't  think!"  I  blurted  out. 

"You— ?" 

"I  don't  think  the  picture's  worth  a  thousand  dol 
lars;  I  don't  think  it's  worth  ten  cents;  I  simply  lied 
about  it,  that's  all." 

Mr.    Rose   looked   as    frightened   as   though    I    had 
charged  him  with  the  offense. 
[   140  ] 


THE    REMBRANDT 

"Hang  it,  man,  can't  you  see  bow  it  happened?  I 
saw  the  poor  woman's  pride  and  happiness  hung  on  her 
faith  in  that  picture.  I  tried  to  make  her  understand 
that  it  was  worthless — but  she  wouldn't;  I  tried  to  tell 
her  so  —  but  I  couldn't.  I  behaved  like  a  maudlin  ass, 
but  you  shan't  pay  for  my  infernal  bungling — you 
mustn't  buy  the  picture!" 

Mr.  Rose  sat  silent,  tapping  one  glossy  boot-tip  with 
another.  Suddenly  he  turned  on  me  a  glance  of  stored 
intelligence.  "But  you  know,"  he  said  good-humoredly, 
"I  rather  think  I  must." 

' '  You  have  n '  t — already  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  no;  the  offer's  not  made." 

"Well,  then—" 

His  look  gathered  a  brighter  significance. 

"But  if  the  picture's  worth  nothing,  nobody  will 
buy  it  — 

I  groaned. 

"Except,"  he  continued,  "some  fellow  like  me,  who 
doesn't  know  anything.  /  think  it's  lovely,  you  know; 
I  mean  to  hang  it  in  my  mother's  sitting-room."  He 
rose  and  clasped  my  hand  in  his  adhesive  pressure. 
"I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you  for  telling  me  this;  but 
perhaps  you  won't  mind  my  asking  you  not  to  mention 
our  talk  to  Miss  Copt?  It  might  bother  her,  you  know, 
to  think  the  picture  is  n't  exactly  up  to  the  mark ;  and 
it  won't  make  a  rap  of  difference  to  me." 


THE    REMBRANDT 

IV 

MR.  ROSE  left  me  to  a  sleepless  night.  The  next 
morning  my  resolve  was  formed,  and  it  carried 
me  straight  to  Mrs.  Pontage's.  She  answered  my  knock 
by  stepping  out  on  the  landing,  and  as  she  shut  the 
door  behind  her  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  devastated 
interior.  She  mentioned,  with  a  careful  avoidance  of 
the  note  of  pathos  on  which  our  last  conversation  had 
closed,  that  she  was  preparing  to  leave  that  afternoon; 
and  the  trunks  obstructing  the  threshold  showed  that 
her  preparations  were  nearly  complete.  They  were,  I 
felt  certain,  the  same  trunks  that,  strapped  behind  a 
rattling  vettura,  had  accompanied  the  bride  and  groom 
on  that  memorable  voyage  of  discovery  of  which  the 
booty  had  till  recently  adorned  her  walls;  and  there 
was  a  dim  consolation  in  the  thought  that  those  early 
"finds"  in  coral  and  Swiss  wood-carving,  in  lava  and 
alabaster,  still  lay  behind  the  worn  locks,  in  the  secu 
rity  of  worthlessness. 

Mrs.  Fontage,  on  the  landing,  among  her  strapped 
and  corded  treasures,  maintained  the  same  air  of  sta 
bility  that  made  it  impossible,  even  under  such  condi 
tions,  to  regard  her  flight  as  anything  less  dignified 
than  a  departure.  It  was  the  moral  support  of  what  she 
tacitly  assumed  that  enabled  me  to  set  forth  with 
proper  deliberation  the  object  of  my  visit;  and  she  re- 
[  142  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

ceived  my  announcement  with  an  absence  of  surprise 
that  struck  me  as  the  very  flower  of  tact.  Under  cover 
of  these  mutual  assumptions  the  transaction  was  rap 
idly  concluded;  and  it  was  not  till  the  canvas  passed 
into  my  hands  that,  as  though  the  physical  contact  had 
unnerved  her,  Mrs.  Fontage  suddenly  faltered.  "It's 
the  giving  it  up — "  she  stammered,  disguising  herself 
to  the  last;  and  I  hastened  away  from  the  collapse  of 
her  splendid  effrontery. 

I  need  hardly  point  out  that  I  had  acted  impulsively, 
and  that  reaction  from  the  most  honorable  impulses  is 
sometimes  attended  by  moral  perturbation.  My  motives 
had  indeed  been  mixed  enough  to  justify  some  uneasi 
ness,  but  this  was  allayed  by  the  instinctive  feeling 
that  it  is  more  venial  to  defraud  an  institution  than  a 
man.  Since  Mrs.  Fontage  had  to  be  kept  from  starving 
by  means  not  wholly  defensible,  it  was  better  that  the 
obligation  should  be  borne  by  a  rich  institution  than  an 
impecunious  youth.  I  doubt,  in  fact,  if  my  scruples 
would  have  survived  a  night's  sleep,  had  they  not  been 
complicated  by  some  uncertainty  as  to  my  own  future. 
It  was  true  that,  subject  to  the  purely  formal  assent 
of  the  committee,  I  had  full  power  to  buy  for  the  Mu 
seum,  and  that  the  one  member  of  the  committee 
likely  to  dispute  my  decision  was  opportunely  travel 
ling  in  Europe;  but  the  picture  once  in  place  I  must 
face  the  risk  of  any  expert  criticism  to  which  chance 


THE     REMBRANDT 

might  expose  it.  I  dismissed  this  contingency  for  future 
study,  stored  the  Rembrandt  in  the  cellar  of  the  Mu 
seum,  and  thanked  heaven  that  Crozier  was  abroad. 

Six  months  later  he  strolled  into  my  office.  I  had  just 
concluded,  under  conditions  of  exceptional  difficulty, 
and  on  terms  unexpectedly  benign,  the  purchase  of 
the  great  Hartley  Reynolds;  and  this  circumstance,  by 
relegating  the  matter  of  the  Rembrandt  to  a  lower 
stratum  of  consciousness,  enabled  me  to  welcome  Cro 
zier  with  unmixed  pleasure.  My  security  was  enhanced 
by  his  appearance.  His  smile  was  charged  with  amiable 
reminiscences,  and  I  inferred  that  his  trip  had  put  him 
in  the  humor  to  approve  of  everything,  or  at  least  to 
ignore  what  fell  short  of  his  approval.  I  had  therefore 
no  uneasiness  in  accepting  his  invitation  to  dine  that 
evening.  It  is  always  pleasant  to  dine  with  Crozier  and 
never  more  so  than  when  he  is  just  back  from  Europe. 
His  conversation  gives  even  the  food  a  flavor  of  the 
Cafe  Anglais. 

The  repast  was  delightful,  and  it  was  not  till  we  had 
finished  a  Camembert  which  he  must  have  brought 
over  with  him,  that  my  host  said,  in  a  tone  of  after- 
dinner  perfunctoriness :  "I  see  you've  picked  up  a  pic 
ture  or  two  since  I  left." 

I  assented.  "The  Bartley  Reynolds  seemed  too  good 
an  opportunity  to  miss,  especially  as  the  French  gov 
ernment  was  after  it.  I  think  we  got  it  cheap  — 
[   144  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

"Connu,  connu,"  said  Crozier  pleasantly.  "I  know  all 
about  the  Reynolds.  It  was  the  biggest  kind  of  a  haul 
and  I  congratulate  you.  Best  stroke  of  business  we  've 
done  yet.  But  tell  me  about  the  other  picture — the 
Rembrandt." 

"I  never  said  it  was  a  Rembrandt."  I  could  hardly 
have  said  why,  but  I  felt  distinctly  annoyed  with  Crozier. 

"Of  course  not.  There's  ' Rembrandt'  on  the  frame, 
but  I  saw  you  'd  modified  it  to  < Dutch  School';  I  apolo 
gize."  He  paused,  but  I  offered  no  explanation.  "What 
about  it?"  he  went  on.  "Where  did  you  pick  it  up?" 
As  he  leaned  to  the  flame  of  the  cigar-lighter  his  face 
seemed  ruddy  with  enjoyment. 

"I  got  it  for  a  song/'  I  said. 

"A  thousand,  I  think?" 

"Have  you  seen  it?"  I  asked  abruptly. 

"Went  over  the  place  this  afternoon  and  found  it  in 
the  cellar.  Why  hasn't  it  been  hung,  by  the  way?" 

I  paused  a  moment.  "I'm  waiting — 

'•'To— ?" 

"To  have  it  varnished." 

"Ah!"  He  leaned  back  and  poured  himself  a  second 
glass  of  Chartreuse.  The  smile  he  confided  to  its  golden 
depths  provoked  me  to  challenge  him  with  — 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"The  Rembrandt?"  He  lifted  his  eyes  from  the  glass. 
"Just  what  you  do." 

[   145  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

"It  isn't  a  Rembrandt." 

"I  apologize  again.  You  call  it,  I  believe,  a  picture 
of  the  same  period?" 

"I  'in  uncertain  of  the  period." 

"H'm."  He  glanced  appreciatively  along  his  cigar. 
"What  are  you  certain  of?" 

"That  it's  a  damned  bad  picture/'  I  said  savagely. 

He  nodded.  "Just  so.  That 's  all  we  wanted  to  know." 

"We?" 

"We — I — the  committee,  in  short.  You  see,  my  dear 
fellow,  if  you  hadn't  been  certain  it  was  a  damned  bad 
picture  our  position  would  have  been  a  little  awkward. 
As  it  is,  my  remaining  duty — I  ought  to  explain  that 
in  this  matter  I  'm  acting  for  the  committee — is  as 
simple  as  it 's  agreeable." 

"I'll  be  hanged,"  I  burst  out,  "if  I  understand  one 
word  you're  saying!" 

He  fixed  me  with  a  kind  of  cruel  joyousness.  "You 
will — you  will,"  he  assured  me;  "at  least  you'll  begin 
to,  when  you  hear  that  I  've  seen  Miss  Copt." 

"Miss  Copt?" 

"And  that  she  has  told  me  under  what  conditions 
the  picture  was  bought." 

"She  doesn't  know  anything  about  the  conditions! 
That  is,"  I  added,  hastening  to  restrict  the  assertion, 
"she   doesn't    know   my   opinion   of  the   picture."    I 
thirsted  for  five  minutes  with  Eleanor. 
[  116] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

"Are  you  quite  sure?"  Crozier  took  me  up.   "Mr, 
Jefferson  Rose  does." 
"Ah— I  see." 

"I  thought  you  would,"  he  reminded  me.  "As  soon 
as  I  'd  laid  eyes  on  the  Rembrandt —  I  beg  your  par 
don! —  I  saw  that  it — well,  required  some  explanation." 
"You  might  have  come  to  me." 
"I  meant  to;  but   I  happened  to  meet  Miss  Copt, 
whose  encyclopaedic  information  has  often  before  been 
of  service  to  me.  I  always  go  to  Miss  Copt  when  I  want 
to  look  up  anything;  and  I  found  she  knew  all  about 
the  Rembrandt." 
"All?" 

"Precisely.  The  knowledge  was  in  fact  causing  her 
sleepless  nights.  Mr.  Rose,  who  was  suffering  from  the 
same  form  of  insomnia,  had  taken  her  into  his  confi 
dence,  and  she— ultimately— took  me  into  hers." 
"Of  course!" 

"I  must  ask  you  to  do  your  cousin  justice.  She 
did  n't  speak  till  it  became  evident  to  her  uncommonly 
quick  perceptions  that  your  buying  the  picture  on  its 
merits  would  have  been  infinitely  worse  for for  every 
body—than  your  diverting  a  small  portion  of  the  Mu 
seum's  funds  to  philanthropic  uses.  Then  she  told  me 
the  moving  incident  of  Mr.  Rose.  Good  fellow,  Rose. 
And  the  old  lady's  case  was  desperate.  Somebody  had 
to  buy  that  picture."  I  moved  uneasily  in  my  seat. 


THE     REMBRANDT 

"Wait  a  moment,  will  you?  I  haven't  finished  my  ci 
gar.  There's  a  little  head  of  II  Fiammingo's  that  you 
haven't  seen,  by  the  way;  I  picked  it  up  the  other 
day  in  Parma.  We  '11  go  in  and  have  a  look  at  it  pres 
ently.  But  meanwhile  what  I  want  to  say  is  that  I  've 
been  charged  —  in  the  most  informal  way — to  express 
to  you  the  committee's  appreciation  of  your  admirable 
promptness  and  energy  in  capturing  the  Bartley  Rey 
nolds.  We  should  n't  have  got  it  at  all  if  you  had  n't 
been  uncommonly  wide-awake,  and  to  get  it  at  such  a 
price  is  a  double  triumph.  We  'd  have  thought  nothing 
of  a  few  more  thousands — 

"I  don't  see,"  I  impatiently  interposed,  "that,  as  far 
as  I  'm  concerned,  that  alters  the  case." 

"The  case  —  ?" 

"Of  Mrs.  Fontage's  Rembrandt.  I  bought  the  picture 
because,  as  you  say,  the  situation  was  desperate,  and  I 
couldn't  raise  a  thousand  myself.  What  I  did  was  of 
course  indefensible;  but  the  money  shall  be  refunded 
to-morrow— 

Crozier  raised  a  protesting  hand,,  "Don't  interrupt 
me  when  I  'm  talking  ex  cathedra.  The  money 's  been 
refunded  already.  The  fact  is,  the  Museum  has  sold  the 
Rembrandt." 

I  stared  at  him  wildly.  "Sold  it?  To  whom?" 

"Why — to  the  committee. — Hold  on  a  bit,  please. 
— Won't  you  take  another  cigar?  Then  perhaps  I  can 
[  148  ] 


THE     REMBRANDT 

finish  what  I've  got  to  say.  —  Why,,  my  dear  fellow,  the 
committee's  under  an  obligation  to  you  —  that's  the 
way  we  look  at  it.  I  've  investigated  Mrs.  Pontage's 
case,,  and  —  well,  the  picture  had  to  be  bought.  She's 
eating  meat  now,  I  believe,  for  the  first  time  in  a  year. 
And  they  'd  have  turned  her  out  into  the  street  that 
very  day,  your  cousin  tells  me.  Something  had  to  be 
done  at  once,  and  you've  simply  given  a  number  of 
well-to-do  and  self-indulgent  gentlemen  the  opportu 
nity  of  performing,  at  very  small  individual  expense,  a 
meritorious  action  in  the  nick  of  time.  That 's  the  first 
thing  I  've  got  to  thank  you  for.  And  then — you  '11  re 
member,  please,  that  I  have  the  floor  —  that  I'm  still 
speaking  for  the  committee  —  and  secondly,  as  a  slight 
recognition  of  your  services  in  securing  the  Bartley 
Reynolds  at  a  very  much  lower  figure  than  we  were 
prepared  to  pay,  we  beg  you  —  the  committee  begs  you 
—to  accept  the  gift  of  Mrs.  Fontage's  Rembrandt. 
Now  we'll  go  in  and  look  at  that  little  head.  ..." 


[  1*9  ] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

THE  news  of  Mrs.  Grancy's  death  came  to  me 
with  the  shock  of  an  immense  blunder  —  one 
of  fate's  most  irretrievable  acts  of  vandalism. 
It  was  as  though  all  sorts  of  renovating  forces  had  been 
checked  by  the  clogging  of  that  one  wheel.  Not  that 
Mrs.  Grancy  contributed  any  perceptible  momentum  to 
the  social  machine:  her  unique  distinction  was  that  of 
filling  to  perfection  her  special  place  in  the  world.  So 
many  people  are  like  badly-composed  statues,  over-lap 
ping  their  niches  at  one  point  and  leaving  them  vacant 
at  another.  Mrs.  Grancy's  niche  was  her  husband's  life; 
and  if  it  be  argued  that  the  space  was  not  large  enough 
for  its  vacancy  to  leave  a  very  big  gap,  I  can  only  say 
that,  at  the  last  resort,  such  dimensions  must  be  deter 
mined  by  finer  instruments  than  any  ready-made  stan 
dard  of  utility.  Ralph  Grancy's  was  in  short  a  kind  of 
disembodied  usefulness:  one  of  those  constructive  influ 
ences  that,  instead  of  crystallizing  into  definite  forms, 
remain  as  it  were  a  medium  for  the  development  of 
clear  thinking  and  fine  feeling.  He  faithfully  irrigated 
his  own  dusty  patch  of  life,  and  the  fruitful  moisture 
stole  far  beyond  his  boundaries.  If,  to  carry  on  the 
metaphor,  Grancy's  life  was  a  sedulously-cultivated 
enclosure,  his  wife  was  the  flower  he  had  planted  in 
[  153] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

its  midst-— the  embowering  tree,  rather,  which  gave 
him  rest  and  shade  at  its  foot  and  the  wind  of  dreams 
in  its  upper  branches. 

We  had  all — his  small  but  devoted  band  of  followers 
— known  a  moment  when  it  seemed  likely  that  Grancy 
would  fail  us.  We  had  watched  him  pitted  against  one 
stupid  obstacle  after  another — ill-health,  poverty,  mis 
understanding  and,  worst  of  all  for  a  man  of  his  texture, 
his  first  wife's  soft  insidious  egotism.  We  had  seen  him 
sinking  under  the  leaden  embrace  of  her  affection  like 
a  swimmer  in  a  drowning  clutch;  but  just  as  we  de 
spaired  he  had  always  come  to  the  surface  again, 
blinded,  panting,  but  striking  out  fiercely  for  the  shore. 
When  at  last  her  death  released  him  it  became  a  ques 
tion  as  to  how  much  of  the  man  she  had  carried  with 
her.  Left  alone,  he  revealed  numb  withered  patches, 
like  a  tree  from  which  a  parasite  has  been  stripped. 
But  gradually  he  began  to  put  out  new  leaves;  and 
when  he  met  the  lady  who  was  to  become  his  second 
wife — his  one  real  wife,  as  his  friends  reckoned — the 
whole  man  burst  into  flower. 

The  second  Mrs.  Grancy  was  past  thirty  when  he 
married  her,  and  it  was  clear  that  she  had  harvested 
that  crop  of  middle  joy  which  is  rooted  in  young  de 
spair.  But  if  she  had  lost  the  surface  of  eighteen  she 
had  kept  its  inner  light;  if  her  cheek  lacked  the  gloss 
of  immaturity  her  eyes  were  young  with  the  stored 
[  154  ] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

youth  of  half  a  life-time.  Grancy  had  first  known  her 
somewhere  in  the  East  —  I  believe  she  was  the  sister 
of  one  of  our  consuls  out  there — and  when  he  brought 
her  home  to  New  York  she  came  among  us  as  a  stran 
ger.  The  idea  of  Grancy's  remarriage  had  been  a  shock 
to  us  all.  After  one  such  calcining  most  men  would 
have  kept  out  of  the  fire;  but  we  agreed  that  he  was 
predestined  to  sentimental  blunders,  and  we  awaited 
with  resignation  the  embodiment  of  his  latest  mistake. 
Then  Mrs.  Grancy  came — and  we  understood.  She  was 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  complete  of  explana 
tions.  We  shuffled  our  defeated  omniscience  out  of  sight 
and  gave  it  hasty  burial  under  a  prodigality  of  welcome. 
For  the  first  time  in  years  we  had  Grancy  off  our  minds. 
"He'll  do  something  great  now!"  the  least  sanguine  of 
us  prophesied;  and  our  sentimentalist  emended:  "He 
has  done  it — in  marrying  her!" 

It  was  Claydon,  the  portrait-painter,  who  risked  this 
hyperbole ;  and  who  soon  afterward,  at  the  happy  hus 
band's  request,  prepared  to  defend  it  in  a  portrait  of 
Mrs.  Grancy.  We  were  all — even  Claydon — ready  to 
concede  that  Mrs.  Grancy's  unwontedness  was  in  some 
degree  a  matter  of  environment.  Her  graces  were  com 
plementary  and  it  needed  the  mate's  call  to  reveal  the 
flash  of  color  beneath  her  neutral-tinted  wings.  But  if 
she  needed  Grancy  to  interpret  her,  how  much  greater 
was  the  service  she  rendered  him!  Claydon  profession- 
[  155  ] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

ally  described  her  as  the  right  frame  for  him ;  but  if  she 
defined  she  also  enlarged,  if  she  threw  the  whole  into 
perspective  she  also  cleared  new  ground,  opened  fresh 
vistas,  reclaimed  whole  areas  of  activity  that  had  run 
to  waste  under  the  harsh  husbandry  of  privation.  This 
interaction  of  sympathies  was  not  without  its  visible 
expression.  Claydon  was  not  alone  in  maintaining  that 
Grancy's  presence  —  or  indeed  the  mere  mention  of  his 
name — had  a  perceptible  effect  on  his  wife's  appear 
ance.  It  was  as  though  a  light  were  shifted,  a  curtain 
drawn  back,  as  though,  to  borrow  another  of  Claydon's 
metaphors,  Love  the  indefatigable  artist  were  perpetu 
ally  seeking  a  happier  "pose"  for  his  model.  In  this 
interpretative  light  Mrs.  Grancy  acquired  the  charm 
which  makes  some  women's  faces  like  a  book  of  which 
the  last  page  is  never  turned.  There  was  always  some 
thing  new  to  read  in  her  eyes.  What  Claydon  read 
there  —  or  at  least  such  scattered  hints  of  the  ritual  as 
reached  him  through  the  sanctuary  doors  —  his  portrait 
in  due  course  declared  to  us.  When  the  picture  was 
exhibited  it  was  at  once  acclaimed  as  his  masterpiece; 
but  the  people  who  knew  Mrs.  Grancy  smiled  arid  said 
it  was  flattered.  Claydon,  however,  had  not  set  out  to 
paint  their  Mrs.  Grancy — or  ours  even  —  but  Ralph's; 
and  Ralph  knew  his  own  at  a  glance.  At  the  first  con 
frontation  he  saw  that  Claydon  had  understood.  As  for 
Mrs.  Grancy,  when  the  finished  picture  was  shown  to 
[156] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

her  she  turned  to  the  painter  and  said  simply:  "Ah, 
you've  done  me  facing  the  east!" 

The  picture,  then,  for  all  its  value,  seemed  a  mere 
incident  in  the  unfolding  of  their  double  destiny,  a 
foot-note  to  the  illuminated  text  of  their  lives.  It  was 
not  till  afterward  that  it  acquired  the  significance  of 
last  words  spoken  on  a  threshold  never  to  be  recrossed. 
Grancy,  a  year  after  his  marriage,  had  given  up  his 
town  house  and  carried  his  bliss  an  hour's  journey 
away,  to  a  little  place  among  the  hills.  His  various 
duties  and  interests  brought  him  frequently  to  New 
York  but  we  necessarily  saw  him  less  often  than  when 
his  house  had  served  as  the  rallying-point  of  kindred 
enthusiasms.  It  seemed  a  pity  that  such  an  influence 
should  be  withdrawn,  but  we  all  felt  that  his  long 
arrears  of  happiness  should  be  paid  in  whatever  coin 
he  chose.  The  distance  from  which  the  fortunate 
couple  radiated  warmth  on  us  was  not  too  great  for 
friendship  to  traverse;  and  our  conception  of  a  glori 
fied  leisure  took  the  form  of  Sundays  spent  in  the 
Grancys'  library,  with  its  sedative  rural  outlook,  and 
the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Grancy  illuminating  its  studious 
walls.  The  picture  was  at  its  best  in  that  setting;  and 
we  used  to  accuse  Claydon  of  visiting  Mrs.  Grancy  in 
order  to  see  her  portrait.  He  met  this  by  declaring 
that  the  portrait  was  Mrs.  Grancy;  and  there  were 
moments  when  the  statement  seemed  unanswerable. 
[  157  1 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

One  of  us,  indeed — I  think  it  must  have  been  the 
novelist  —  said  that  Claydon  had  been  saved  from  fall 
ing  in  love  with  Mrs.  Grancy  only  by  falling  in  love 
with  his  picture  of  her;  and  it  was  noticeable  that  he, 
to  whom  his  finished  work  was  no  more  than  the  shed 
husk  of  future  effort,  showed  a  perennial  tenderness 
for  this  one  achievement.  We  smiled  afterward  to  think 
how  often,  when  Mrs.  Grancy  was  in  the  room,  her  pres 
ence  reflecting  itself  in  our  talk  like  a  gleam  of  sky  in  a 
hurrying  current,  Claydon,  averted  from  the  real  woman, 
would  sit  as  it  were  listening  to  the  picture.  His  atti 
tude,  at  the  time,  seemed  only  a  part  of  the  unusualness 
of  those  picturesque  afternoons,  when  the  most  familiar 
combinations  of  life  underwent  a  magical  change.  Some 
human  happiness  is  a  landlocked  lake ;  but  the  Grancys' 
was  an  open  sea,  stretching  a  buoyant  and  illimitable 
surface  to  the  voyaging  interests  of  life.  There  was  room 
and  to  spare  on  those  waters  for  all  our  separate  ven 
tures  ;  and  always,  beyond  the  sunset,  a  mirage  of  the 
fortunate  isles  toward  which  our  prows  were  bent. 

II 

IT  was  in  Rome  that,  three  years  later,  I  heard  of 
her  death.  The  notice  said  "suddenly";  I  was  glad 
of  that.  I  was  glad  too — basely  perhaps  —  to  be  away 
from  Grancy  at  a  time  when  silence  must  have  seemed 
obtuse  and  speech  derisive. 

[  158  ] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

I  was  still  in  Rome  when,  a  few  months  afterward, 
he  suddenly  arrived  there.  He  had  been  appointed 
secretary  of  legation  at  Constantinople  and  was  on 
the  way  to  his  post.  He  had  taken  the  place,  he  said 
frankly,  "to  get  away."  Our  relations  with  the  Porte 
held  out  a  prospect  of  hard  work,  and  that,  he  ex 
plained,  was  what  he  needed.  He  could  never  be  sat 
isfied  to  sit  down  among  the  ruins.  I  saw  that,  like 
most  of  us  in  moments  of  extreme  moral  tension,  he 
was  playing  a  part,  behaving  as  he  thought  it  became 
a  man  to  behave  in  the  eye  of  disaster.  The  instinc 
tive  posture  of  grief  is  a  shuffling  compromise  be 
tween  defiance  and  prostration;  and  pride  feels  the 
need  of  striking  a  worthier  attitude  in  face  of  such  a 
foe.  Grancy,  by  nature  musing  and  retrospective,  had 
chosen  the  role  of  the  man  of  action,  who  answers 
blow  for  blow  and  opposes  a  mailed  front  to  the 
thrusts  of  destiny;  and  the  completeness  of  the  equip 
ment  testified  to  his  inner  weakness.  We  talked  only 
of  what  we  were  not  thinking  of,  and  parted,  after  a 
few  days,  with  a  sense  of  relief  that  proved  the  in 
adequacy  of  friendship  to  perform,  in  such  cases,  the 
office  assigned  to  it  by  tradition. 

Soon  afterward  my  own  work  called  me  home,  but 

Grancy  remained  several  years  in  Europe.  International 

diplomacy  kept  its  promise  of  giving  him  work  to  do, 

and  during  the  year  in  which  he  acted  as  charge  d'qf- 

[159] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

faires  he  acquitted  himself,  under  trying  conditions, 
with  conspicuous  zeal  and  discretion.  A  political  redis 
tribution  of  matter  removed  him  from  office  just  as  he 
had  proved  his  usefulness  to  the  government;  and  the 
following  summer  I  heard  that  he  had  come  home  and 
was  down  at  his  place  in  the  country. 

On  my  return  to  town  I  wrote  him  and  his  reply 
came  by  the  next  post.  He  answered  as  it  were  in  his 
natural  voice,  urging  me  to  spend  the  following  Sunday 
with  him,  and  suggesting  that  I  should  bring  down  any 
of  the  old  set  who  could  be  persuaded  to  join  me.  I 
thought  this  a  good  sign,  and  yet  —  shall  I  own  it?  —  I 
was  vaguely  disappointed,  Perhaps  we  are  apt  to  feel 
that  our  friends'  sorrows  should  be  kept  like  those  his 
toric  monuments  from  which  the  encroaching  ivy  is 
periodically  removed. 

That  very  evening  at  the  club  I  ran  across  Claydon. 
I  told  him  of  Grancy's  invitation  and  proposed  that  we 
should  go  down  together;  but  he  pleaded  an  engage 
ment.  I  was  sorry,  for  I  had  always  felt  that  he  and  I 
stood  nearer  Ralph  than  the  others,  and  if  the  old  Sun 
days  were  to  be  renewed  I  should  have  preferred  that 
we  two  should  spend  the  first  alone  with  him.  I  said  as 
much  to  Claydon  and  offered  to  fit  my  time  to  his;  but 
he  met  this  by  a  general  refusal. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  Grancy's,"  he  said  bluntly.  I 
waited  a  moment,  but  he  appended  no  qualifying  clause. 
[160] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

"You've  seen  him  since  he  came  back?"  I  finally 
ventured. 

Claydon  nodded. 

"And  is  he  so  awfully  bad?" 

"Bad?  No:  he's  all  right." 

"All  right?  How  can  he  be,  unless  he's  changed  be 
yond  all  recognition?" 

"Oh,  you'll  recognize  him"  said  Claydon,  with  a 
puzzling  deflection  of  emphasis. 

His  ambiguity  was  beginning  to  exasperate  me,  and 
I  felt  myself  shut  out  from  some  knowledge  to  which  I 
had  as  good  a  right  as  he. 

"You've  been  down  there  already,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes;  I've  been  down  there." 

"And  you've  done  with  each  other — the  partner 
ship  is  dissolved?" 

"Done  with  each  other?  I  wish  to  God  we  had!"  He 
rose  nervously  and  tossed  aside  the  review  from  which 
my  approach  had  diverted  him.  "Look  here,"  he  said, 
standing  before  me,  "Ralph's  the  best  fellow  going 
and  there  's  nothing  under  heaven  I  would  n't  do  for 
him — short  of  going  down  there  again."  And  with  that 
he  walked  out  of  the  room. 

Claydon  was  incalculable  enough  for  me  to  read  a 

dozen  different  meanings  into  his  words;  but  none  of 

my  interpretations  satisfied  me.   I  determined,  at  any 

rate,  to  seek  no  farther  for  a  companion ;  and  the  next 

[161] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

Sunday  I  travelled  down  to  Grancy's  alone.  He  met 
me  at  the  station  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  had 
changed  since  our  last  meeting.  Then  he  had  been  in 
fighting  array,  but  now  if  he  and  grief  still  housed 
together  it  was  no  longer  as  enemies.  Physically  the 
transformation  was  as  marked  but  less  reassuring.  If 
the  spirit  triumphed  the  body  showed  its  scars.  At 
five-and-forty  he  was  gray  and  stooping,  with  the  tired 
gait  of  an  old  man.  His  serenity,  however,  was  not  the 
resignation  of  age.  I  saw  that  he  did  not  mean  to  drop 
out  of  the  game.  Almost  immediately  he  began  to 
speak  of  our  old  interests ;  not  with  an  effort,  as  at  our 
former  meeting,  but  simply  and  naturally,  in  the  tone 
of  a  man  whose  life  has  flowed  back  into  its  normal 
channels.  I  remembered,  with  a  touch  of  self-reproach, 
how  I  had  distrusted  his  reconstructive  powers;  but  my 
admiration  for  his  reserved  force  was  now  tinged  by 
the  sense  that,  after  all,  such  happiness  as  his  ought 
to  have  been  paid  with  his  last  coin.  The  feeling  grew 
as  we  neared  the  house  and  I  found  how  inextricably 
his  wife  was  interwoven  with  my  remembrance  of  the 
place:  how  the  whole  scene  was  but  an  extension  of 
that  vivid  presence. 

Within  doors  nothing  was  changed,  and  my  hand 
would   have    dropped  without    surprise    into  her  wel 
coming  clasp.    It  was  luncheon-time,  and  Grancy  led 
me  at  once  to  the  dining-room,  where  the  walls,  the 
[  162] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

furniture,  the  very  plate  and  porcelain,  seemed  a  mir 
ror  in  which  a  moment  since  her  face  had  been  re 
flected.  I  wondered  whether  Grancy,  under  the  recov 
ered  tranquillity  of  his  smile,  concealed  the  same  sense 
of  her  nearness,  saw  perpetually  between  himself  and 
the  actual  her  bright  unappeasable  ghost.  He  spoke 
of  her  once  or  twice,  in  an  easy  incidental  way,  and 
her  name  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air  after  he  had  ut 
tered  it,  like  a  chord  that  continues  to  vibrate.  If  he 
felt  her  presence  it  was  evidently  as  an  enveloping 
medium,  the  moral  atmosphere  in  which  he  breathed. 
I  had  never  before  known  how  completely  the  dead 
may  survive. 

After  luncheon  we  went  for  a  long  walk  through 
the  autumnal  fields  and  woods,  and  dusk  was  falling 
when  we  re-entered  the  house.  Grancy  led  the  way  to 
the  library,  where,  at  this  hour,  his  wife  had  always 
welcomed  us  back  to  a  bright  fire  and  a  cup  of  tea. 
The  room  faced  the  west,  and  held  a  clear  light  of  its 
own  after  the  rest  of  the  house  had  grown  dark.  I  re 
membered  how  young  she  had  looked  in  this  pale  gold 
light,  which  irradiated  her  eyes  and  hair,  or  silhouetted 
her  girlish  outline  as  she  passed  before  the  windows. 
Of  all  the  rooms  the  library  was  most  peculiarly  hers; 
and  here  I  felt  that  her  nearness  might  take  visible 
shape.  Then,  all  in  a  moment,  as  Grancy  opened  the 
door,  the  feeling  vanished  and  a  kind  of  resistance 
[163] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

met  me  on  the  threshold.  I  looked  about  me.  Was  the 
room  changed?  Had  some  desecrating  hand  effaced  the 
traces  of  her  presence?  No;  here  too  the  setting  was 
undisturbed.  My  feet  sank  into  the  same  deep-piled 
Daghestan;  the  book-shelves  took  the  firelight  on  the 
same  rows  of  rich  subdued  bindings;  her  arm-chair 
stood  in  its  old  place  near  the  tea-table;  and  from  the 
opposite  wall  her  face  confronted  me. 

Her  face — but  was  it  hers?  I  moved  nearer  and 
stood  looking  up  at  the  portrait.  Grancy's  glance  had 
followed  mine  and  I  heard  him  move  to  my  side. 

"You  see  a  change  in  it?"  he  said. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  asked. 

"It  means — that  five  years  have  passed." 

"Over  her?" 

"Why  not? —  Look  at  me!"  He  pointed  to  his  gray 
hair  and  furrowed  temples.  "What  do  you  think  kept 
her  so  young?  It  was  happiness!  But  now—  "  he  looked 
up  at  her  with  infinite  tenderness.  "I  like  her  better 
so,"  he  said.  "It's  what  she  would  have  wished." 

"Have  wished?" 

"That  we  should  grow  old  together.  Do  you  think 
she  would  have  wanted  to  be  left  behind?" 

I  stood  speechless,  my  gaze  travelling  from  his  worn 
grief-beaten  features  to  the  painted  face  above.  It  was 
not  furrowed  like  his;  but  a  veil  of  years  seemed  to 
[  164] 


THE     MOVING     FINGER 

have  descended  on  it.  The  bright  hair  had  lost,  its  elas 
ticity,  the  cheek  its  clearness,  the  brow  its  light:  the 
whole  woman  had  waned. 

Grancy  laid  his  hand  on  my  arm.  "You  don't  like 
it?"  he  said  sadly. 

"Like  it?  I— I've  lost  her!"  I  burst  out. 

"And  I  've  found  her,"  he  answered. 

"In  that?"  I  cried  with  a  reproachful  gesture. 

"Yes;  in  that."  He  swung  round  on  me  almost  defi 
antly.  "The  other  had  become  a  sham,  a  lie!  This  is 
the  way  she  would  have  looked — does  look,  I  mean. 
Claydon  ought  to  know,  oughtn't  he?" 

I  turned  suddenly.  "Did  Claydon  do  this  for  you?" 

Grancy  nodded. 

"Since  your  return?" 

"Yes.  I  sent  for  him  after  I  'd  been  back  a  week — ." 
He  turned  away  and  gave  a  thrust  to  the  smouldering 
fire.  I  followed,  glad  to  leave  the  picture  behind  me. 
Grancy  threw  himself  into  a  chair  near  the  hearth,  so 
that  the  light  fell  on  his  sensitive  variable  face.  He 
leaned  his  head  back,  shading  his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
and  began  to  speak. 

Ill 

""V7~OU  fellows  knew  enough  of  my  early  history  to 
A     guess  what  my  second  marriage  meant  to  me.  I 
say  guess,  because  no  one  could  understand  —  really. 
[165] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

I've  always  had  a  feminine  streak  in  me,  I  suppose: 
the  need  of  a  pair  of  eyes  that  should  see  with  me,  of 
a  pulse  that  should  keep  time  with  mine.  Life  is  a  big 
thing,  of  course;  a  magnificent  spectacle;  but  I  got  so 
tired  of  looking  at  it  alone!  Still,  it's  always  good  to 
live,  and  I  had  plenty  of  happiness — of  the  evolved 
kind.  What  I  'd  never  had  a  taste  of  was  the  simple  in- 
conscient  sort  that  one  breathes  in  like  the  air.  .  . 

"Well — I  met  her.  It  was  like  finding  the  climate  in 
which  I  was  meant  to  live.  You  know  what  she  was — 
how  indefinitely  she  multiplied  one's  points  of  contact 
with  life,  how  she  lit  up  the  caverns  and  bridged  the 
abysses!  WTell,  I  swear  to  you  (though  I  suppose  the 
sense  of  all  that  was  latent  in  me)  that  what  I  used  to 
think  of  on  my  way  home  at  the  end  of  the  day,  was 
simply  that  when  I  opened  this  door  she'd  be  sitting 
over  there,  with  the  lamp-light  falling  in  a  particular 
way  on  one  little  curl  in  her  neck.  .  .  When  Claydon 
painted  her  he  caught  just  the  look  she  used  to  lift 
to  mine  when  I  came  in  —  I've  wondered,  sometimes, 
at  his  knowing  how  she  looked  when  she  and  I  were 
alone.  —  How  I  rejoiced  in  that  picture!  I  used  to  say 
to  her,  '  You  're  my  prisoner  now — I  shall  never  lose 
you.  If  you  grew  tired  of  me  and  left  me  you  'd  leave 
your  real  self  there  on  the  wall!'  It  was  always  one  of 
our  jokes  that  she  was  going  to  grow  tired  of  me — 

"Three  years  of  it — and  then  she  died.  It  was  so 
[166] 


THE    MOVING    FINGER 

sudden  that  there  was  no  change,  no  diminution.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  suddenly  become  fixed,  immovable, 
like  her  own  portrait :  as  if  Time  had  ceased  at  its  hap 
piest  hour,  just  as  Claydon  had  thrown  down  his  brush 
one  day  and  said,  'I  can't  do  better  than  that.' 

"  I  went  away,  as  you  know,  and  stayed  over  there 
five  years.  I  worked  as  hard  as  I  knew  how,  and  after 
the  first  black  months  a  little  light  stole  in  on  me. 
From  thinking  that  she  would  have  been  interested  in 
what  I  was  doing  I  came  to  feel  that  she  was  interested 
—  that  she  wras  there  and  that  she  knew.  I  'm  not  talk 
ing  any  psychical  jargon — I  'm  simply  trying  to  express 
the  sense  I  had  that  an  influence  so  full,  so  abounding 
as  hers  couldn't  pass  like  a  spring  shower.  We  had  so 
lived  into  each  other's  hearts  and  minds  that  the  con 
sciousness  of  what  she  would  have  thought  and  felt 
illuminated  all  I  did.  At  first  she  used  to  come  back 
shyly,  tentatively,  as  though  not  sure  of  finding  me; 
then  she  stayed  longer  and  longer,  till  at  last  she  be 
came  again  the  very  air  I  breathed.  .  .  There  were 
bad  moments,  of  course,  when  her  nearness  mocked 
me  with  the  loss  of  the  real  woman;  but  gradually  the 
distinction  between  the  two  was  effaced  and  the  mere 
thought  of  her  grew  warm  as  flesh  and  blood. 

"Then  I  came  home.  I  landed  in  the  morning  and 
came  straight  down  here.  The  thought  of  seeing  her 
portrait  possessed  me  and  my  heart  beat  like  a  lover's 
[  167  1 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

as  I  opened  the  library  door.  It  was  in  the  afternoon 
and  the  room  was  full  of  light.  It  fell  on  her  picture — 
the  picture  of  a  young  and  radiant  woman.  She  smiled 
at  me  coldly  across  the  distance  that  divided  us.  I  had 
the  feeling  that  she  didn't  even  recognize  me.  And 
then  I  caught  sight  of  myself  in  the  mirror  over  there 
— a  gray-haired  broken  man  whom  she  had  never 
known ! 

"For  a  week  we  two  lived  together — the  strange 
woman  and  the  strange  man.  I  used  to  sit  night  after 
night  and  question  her  smiling  face;  but  no  answer 
ever  came.  What  did  she  know  of  me,  after  all?  We 
were  irrevocably  separated  by  the  five  years  of  life  that 
lay  between  us.  At  times,  as  I  sat  here,  I  almost  grew 
to  hate  her;  for  her  presence  had  driven  away  my 
gentle  ghost,  the  real  wife  who  had  wept,  aged,  strug 
gled  with  me  during  those  awful  years.  .  .  It  was  the 
worst  loneliness  I  've  ever  known.  Then,  gradually,  I 
began  to  notice  a  look  of  sadness  in  the  picture's  eyes; 
a  look  that  seemed  to  say:  'Don't  you  see  that  I  am 
lonely  too?'  And  all  at  once  it  came  over  me  how  she 
would  have  hated  to  be  left  behind!  I  remembered  her 
comparing  life  to  a  heavy  book  that  could  not  be  read 
with  ease  unless  two  people  held  it  together;  and  I 
thought  how  impatiently  her  hand  would  have  turned 
the  pages  that  divided  us! — So  the  idea  came  to  me: 
'It's  the  picture  that  stands  between  us;  the  picture 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

that  is  dead,  and  not  my  wife.  To  sit  in  this  room  is 
to  keep  watch  beside  a  corpse.'  As  this  feeling  grew 
on  me  the  portrait  became  like  a  beautiful  mausoleum 
in  which  she  had  been  buried  alive:  I  could  hear  her 
beating  against  the  painted  walls  and  crying  to  me 
faintly  for  help.  .  . 

"One  day  I  found  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer 
and  I  sent  for  Claydon.  He  came  down  and  I  told  him 
what  I  'd  been  through  and  what  I  wanted  him  to  do. 
At  first  he  refused  point-blank  to  touch  the  picture. 
The  next  morning  I  went  off  for  a  long  tramp,  and 
when  I  came  home  I  found  him  sitting  here  alone. 
He  looked  at  me  sharply  for  a  moment  and  then  he 
said:  'I've  changed  my  mind;  I'll  do  it.'  I  arranged 
one  of  the  north  rooms  as  a  studio  and  he  shut  him 
self  up  there  for  a  day;  then  he  sent  for  me.  The  pic 
ture  stood  there  as  you  see  it  now — it  was  as  though 
she  'd  met  me  on  the  threshold  and  taken  me  in  her 
arms!  I  tried  to  thank  him,  to  tell  him  what  it  meant 
to  me,  but  he  cut  me  short. 

"' There's  an  up  train  at  five,  isn't  there?'  he  asked. 
'I'm  booked  for  a  dinner  to-night.  I  shall  just  have 
time  to  make  a  bolt  for  the  station  and  you  can  send 
my  traps  after  me.'  I  haven't  seen  him  since. 

"I  can  guess  what  it  cost  him  to  lay  hands  on  his 
masterpiece;  but,  after  all,  to  him  it  was  only  a  picture 
lost,  to  me  it  was  my  wife  regained!" 
[169] 


THE    MOVING    FINGER 

IV 

A'TER  that,  for  ten  years  or  more,  I  watched  the 
strange  spectacle  of  a  life  of  hopeful  and  pro 
ductive  effort  based  on  the  structure  of  a  dream.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  to  those  who  saw  Grancy  during 
this  period  that  he  drew  his  strength  and  courage  from 
the  sense  of  his  wife's  mystic  participation  in  his  task. 
When  I  went  back  to  see  him  a  few  months  later  I 
found  the  portrait  had  been  removed  from  the  library 
and  placed  in  a  small  study  up-stairs,  to  which  he  had 
transferred  his  desk  and  a  few  books.  He  told  me  he 
always  sat  there  when  he  was  alone,  keeping  the 
library  for  his  Sunday  visitors.  Those  who  missed  the 
portrait  of  course  made  no  comment  on  its  absence, 
and  the  few  who  were  in  his  secret  respected  it. 
Gradually  all  his  old  friends  had  gathered  about  him 
and  our  Sunday  afternoons  regained  something  of 
their  former  character;  but  Claydon  never  reappeared 
among  us. 

As  I  look  back  now  I  see  that  Grancy  must  have 
been  failing  from  the  time  of  his  return  home.  His  in 
vincible  spirit  belied  and  disguised  the  signs  of  weak 
ness  that  afterward  asserted  themselves  in  my  remem 
brance  of  him.  He  seemed  to  have  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  life  to  draw  on,  and  more  than  one  of  us  was 
a  pensioner  on  his  superfluity. 
[  170] 


THE    MOVING    FINGER 

Nevertheless,  when  I  came  back  one  summer  from 
my  European  holiday  and  heard  that  he  had  been  at 
the  point  of  death,  I  understood  at  once  that  we  had 
believed  him  well  only  because  he  wished  us  to. 

I  hastened  down  to  the  country  and  found  him  mid 
way  in  a  slow  convalescence.  I  felt  then  that  he  was 
lost  to  us  and  he  read  my  thought  at  a  glance. 

"Ah/'  he  said,  "I'm  an  old  man  now  and  no  mis 
take.  I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go  half-speed  after 
this;  but  we  shan't  need  towing  just  yet!" 

The  plural  pronoun  struck  me,  and  involuntarily  I 
looked  up  at  Mrs.  Grancy's  portrait.  Line  by  line  I  saw 
my  fear  reflected  in  it.  It  was  the  face  of  a  woman  who 
knows  that  her  husband  is  dying.  My  heart  stood  still  at 
the  thought  of  what  Claydon  had  done. 

Grancy  had  followed  my  glance.  "Yes,  it's  changed 
her,"  he  said  quietly.  "For  months,  you  know,  it  was 
touch  and  go  with  me  —  we  had  a  long  fight  of  it,  and 
it  was  worse  for  her  than  for  me."  After  a  pause  he 
added:  "Claydon  has  been  very  kind;  he's  so  busy 
nowadays  that  I  seldom  see  him,  but  when  I  sent  for 
him  the  other  day  he  came  down  at  once." 

I  was  silent  and  we  spoke  no  more  of  Grancy's  ill 
ness;  but  when  I  took  leave  it  seemed  like  shutting 
him  in  alone  with  his  death-warrant. 

The  next  time  I  went  down  to  see  him  he  looked 
much  better.  It  was  a  Sunday  and  he  received  me  in 
[171] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

the  library,  so  that  I  did  not  see  the  portrait  again. 
He  continued  to  improve  and  toward  spring  we  began 
to  feel  that,  as  he  had  said,  he  might  yet  travel  a  long 
way  without  being  towed. 

One  evening,  on  returning  to  town  after  a  visit  which 
had  confirmed  my  sense  of  reassurance,  I  found  Claydon 
dining  alone  at  the  club.  He  asked  me  to  join  him  and 
over  the  coffee  our  talk  turned  to  his  work. 

"If  you're  not  too  busy,"  I  said  at  length,  "you 
ought  to  make  time  to  go  down  to  Grancy's  again." 

He  looked  up  quickly.  "Why?"  he  asked. 

"Because  he 's  quite  well  again,"  I  returned  with 
a  touch  of  cruelty.  "His  wife's  prognostications  were 
mistaken." 

Claydon  stared  at  me  a  moment.  "Oh,  she  knows," 
he  affirmed  with  a  smile  that  chilled  me. 

"You  mean  to  leave  the  portrait  as  it  is  then?"  I 
persisted. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "He  hasn't  sent  for  me 
yet!" 

A  waiter  came  up  with  the  cigars  and  Claydon  rose 
and  joined  another  group. 

It  was  just  a  fortnight  later  that  Grancy's  house 
keeper  telegraphed  for  me.  She  met  me  at  the  station 
with   the  news   that  he   had  been  "taken    bad"   and 
that  the  doctors  were  with  him.  I  had  to  wait  for  some 
[172] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

time  in  the  deserted  library  before  the  medical  men 
appeared.  They  had  the  baffled  manner  of  empirics 
who  have  been  superseded  by  the  great  Healer;  and  I 
lingered  only  long  enough  to  hear  that  Grancy  was  not 
suffering  and  that  my  presence  could  do  him  no  harm. 

I  found  him  seated  in  his  arm-chair  in  the  little 
study.  He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  smile. 

"You  see  she  was  right  after  all/'  he  said. 

"She?"  I  repeated,  perplexed  for  the  moment. 

"My  wife."  He  indicated  the  picture.  "Of  course  I 
knew  she  had  no  hope  from  the  first.  I  saw  that"  —  he 
lowered  his  voice — "after  Claydon  had  been  here.  But 
I  wouldn't  believe  it  at  first!" 

I  caught  his  hands  in  mine.  "For  God's  sake  don't 
believe  it  now!"  I  adjured  him. 

He  shook  his  head  gently.  "It's  too  late/'  he  said. 
"I  might  have  known  that  she  knew." 

"But,  Grancy,  listen  to  me,"  I  began;  and  then  I 
stopped.  What  could  I  say  that  would  convince  him? 
There  was  no  common  ground  of  argument  on  which 
we  could  meet ;  and  after  all  it  would  be  easier  for  him 
to  die  feeling  that  she  had  known.  Strangely  enough,  I 
saw  that  Claydon  had  missed  his  mark.  .  . 


[  173 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 


GRANCY'S  will  named  me  as  one  of  his  executors; 
and  my  associate,  having  other  duties  on  his 
hands,  begged  me  to  assume  the  task  of  carrying  out 
our  friend's  wishes.  This  placed  me  under  the  necessity 
of  informing  Claydon  that  the  portrait  of  Mrs.  Grancy 
had  been  bequeathed  to  him;  and  he  replied  by  the 
next  post  that  he  would  send  for  the  picture  at  once. 
I  was  staying  in  the  deserted  house  when  the  por 
trait  was  taken  away;  and  as  the  door  closed  on  it  I 
felt  that  Grancy' s  presence  had  vanished  too.  Was  it 
his  turn  to  follow  her  now,  and  could  one  ghost  haunt 
another? 

After  that,  for  a  year  or  two,  I  heard  nothing  more 
of  the  picture,  and  though  I  met  Claydon  from  time 
to  time  we  had  little  to  say  to  each  other.  I  had  no 
definable  grievance  against  the  man  and  I  tried  to 
remember  that  he  had  done  a  fine  thing  in  sacrificing 
his  best  picture  to  a  friend ;  but  my  resentment  had  all 
the  tenacity  of  unreason. 

One  day,  however,  a  lady  whose  portrait  he  had  just 
finished  begged  me  to  go  with  her  to  see  it.  To  refuse 
was  impossible,  and  I  went  with  the  less  reluctance 
that  I  knew  I  was  not  the  only  friend  she  had  invited. 
The  others  were  all  grouped  around  the  easel  when  I 
entered,  and  after  contributing  my  share  to  the  chorus 
[174] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

of  approval  I  turned  away  and  began  to  stroll  about 
the  studio.  Claydon  was  something  of  a  collector  and 
his  things  were  generally  worth  looking  at.  The  studio 
was  a  long  tapestried  room  with  a  curtained  archway 
at  one  end.  The  curtains  were  looped  back,  showing 
a  smaller  apartment,  with  books  and  flowers  and  a  few 
fine  bits  of  bronze  and  porcelain.  The  tea-table  stand 
ing  in  this  inner  room  proclaimed  that  it  was  open  to 
inspection,  and  I  wandered  in.  A  bleu  poudre  vase  first 
attracted  me ;  then  I  turned  to  examine  a  slender  bronze 
Ganymede,  and  in  so  doing  found  myself  face  to  face 
with  Mrs.  Grancy's  portrait.  I  stared  up  at  her  blankly 
and  she  smiled  back  at  me  in  all  the  recovered  radiance 
of  youth.  The  artist  had  effaced  every  trace  of  his  later 
touches  and  the  original  picture  had  reappeared.  It 
throned  alone  on  the  panelled  wall,  asserting  a  brilliant 
supremacy  over  its  carefully-chosen  surroundings.  I  felt 
in  an  instant  that  the  whole  room  was  tributary  to  it: 
that  Claydon  had  heaped  his  treasures  at  the  feet  of 
the  woman  he  loved.  Yes — it  was  the  woman  he  had 
loved  and  not  the  picture;  and  my  instinctive  resent 
ment  was  explained. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Ah,  how  could  you?"  I  cried,  turning  on  him. 

"How  could   I?"   he  retorted.   "How  could   I  not? 
Doesn't  she  belong  to  me  now?" 

I  moved  away  impatiently. 
[  175] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

"Wait  a  moment/'  he  said  with  a  detaining  gesture. 
"The  others  have  gone  and  I  want  to  say  a  word  to 
you.  —  Oh,  I  know  what  you  've  thought  of  me — I  can 
guess!  You  think  I  killed  Grancy,  I  suppose?" 

I  was  startled  by  his  sudden  vehemence.  "I  think 
you  tried  to  do  a  cruel  thing/'  I  said. 

"Ah — what  a  little  way  you  others  see  into  life!"  he 
murmured.  "Sit  down  a  moment — here,  where  we  can 
look  at  her — and  I  '11  tell  you." 

He  threw  himself  on  the  ottoman  beside  me  and  sat 
gazing  up  at  the  picture,  with  his  hands  clasped  about 
his  knee. 

"Pygmalion/*  he  began  slowly,  "turned  his  statue 
into  a  real  woman;  7  turned  my  real  woman  into  a  pic 
ture.  Small  compensation,  you  think — but  you  don't 
know  how  much  of  a  woman  belongs  to  you  after 
you've  painted  her! — Well,  I  made  the  best  of  it,  at 
any  rate  —  I  gave  her  the  best  I  had  in  me;  and  she 
gave  me  in  return  what  such  a  woman  gives  by  merely 
being.  And  after  all  she  rewarded  me  enough  by 
making  me  paint  as  I  shall  never  paint  again!  There 
was  one  side  of  her,  though,  that  was  mine  alone,  and 
that  was  her  beauty;  for  no  one  else  understood  it.  To 
Grancy  even  it  was  the  mere  expression  of  herself— 
what  language  is  to  thought.  Even  when  he  saw  the 
picture  he  didn't  guess  my  secret  —  he  was  so  sure  she 
was  all  his!  As  though  a  man  should  think  he  owned 
[176] 


THE     MOVING    FINGER 

the  moon  because  it  was  reflected  in  the  pool  at  his 
door — 

"Well — when  he  came  home  and  sent  for  me  to 
change  the  picture  it  was  like  asking  me  to  commit 
murder.  He  wanted  me  to  make  an  old  woman  of 
her — of  her  who  had  been  so  divinely,  unchange 
ably  young!  As  if  any  man  who  really  loved  a  woman 
would  ask  her  to  sacrifice  her  youth  and  beauty  for 
his  sake!  At  first  I  told  him  I  couldn't  do  it — but 
afterward,  when  he  left  me  alone  with  the  picture, 
something  queer  happened.  I  suppose  it  was  because 
I  was  always  so  confoundedly  fond  of  Grancy  that  it 
went  against  me  to  refuse  what  he  asked.  Anyhow, 
as  I  sat  looking  up  at  her,  she  seemed  to  say,  'I'm 
not  yours  but  his,  and  I  want  you  to  make  me  what 
he  wishes.'  And  so  I  did  it.  I  could  have  cut  my 
hand  off  when  the  work  was  done  —  I  daresay  he 
told  you  I  never  would  go  back  and  look  at  it.  He 
thought  I  was  too  busy — he  never  understood.  .  . 

"Well — and  then  last  year  he  sent  for  me  again  — 
you  remember.  It  was  after  his  illness,  and  he  told 
me  he  'd  grown  twenty  years  older  and  that  he  wanted 
her  to  grow  older  too — he  didn't  want  her  to  be  left 
behind.  The  doctors  all  thought  he  was  going  to  get 
well  at  that  time,  and  he  thought  so  too;  and  so  did 
I  when  I  first  looked  at  him.  But  when  I  turned  to 
the  picture — ah,  now  I  don't  ask  you  to  believe  me; 
[  177  ] 


THE    MOVING    FINGER 

but  I  swear  it  was  her  face  that  told  me  he  was  dying, 
and  that  she  wanted  him  to  know  it!  She  had  a  mes 
sage  for  him  and  she  made  me  deliver  it." 

He  rose  abruptly  and  walked  toward  the  portrait; 
then  he  sat  down  beside  me  again. 

" Cruel?  Yes,  it  seemed  so  to  me  at  first;  and  this 
time,  if  I  resisted,  it  was  for  his  sake  and  not  for 
mine.  But  all  the  while  I  felt  her  eyes  drawing  me, 
and  gradually  she  made  me  understand.  If  she  'd  been 
there  in  the  flesh  (she  seemed  to  say)  wouldn't  she 
have  seen  before  any  of  us  that  he  was  dying? 
Wouldn't  he  have  read  the  news  first  in  her  face? 
And  wouldn't  it  be  horrible  if  now  he  should  dis 
cover  it  instead  in  strange  eyes? — Well — that  was 
what  she  wanted  of  me  and  I  did  it — I  kept  them 
together  to  the  last!"  He  looked  up  at  the  picture 
again.  "But  now  she  belongs  to  me,"  he  repeated.  .  . 


[178] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

WHEN  I  was  a  young  man  I  thought  a  great 
deal  of  local  color.  At  that  time  it  was 
still  a  pigment  of  recent  discovery,  and 
supposed  to  have  a  peculiarly  stimulating  effect  on 
the  mental  eye.  As  an  aid  to  the  imagination  its  value 
was  perhaps  overrated;  but  as  an  object  of  pursuit  to 
that  vagrant  faculty,  it  had  all  the  merits  claimed  for 
it.  I  certainly  never  hunted  any  game  better  worth 
my  powder;  and  to  a  young  man  with  rare  holidays 
and  long  working  hours,  its  value  was  enhanced  by 
the  fact  that  one  might  bring  it  down  at  any  turn,  if 
only  one  kept  one's  eye  alert  and  one's  hand  on  the 
trigger. 

Even  the  large  manufacturing  city  where,  for  some 
years,  my  young  enthusiasms  were  chained  to  an  ac 
countant's  desk,  was  not  without  its  romantic  oppor 
tunities.  Many  of  the  mill-hands  at  Dunstable  were 
Italians,  and  a  foreign  settlement  had  formed  itself 
in  that  unsavory  and  unsanitary  portion  of  the  town 
known  as  the  Point.  The  Point,  like  more  aristocratic 
communities,  had  its  residential  and  commercial  dis 
tricts,  its  church,  its  theatre  and  its  restaurant.  When 
the  craving  for  local  color  was  on  me  it  was  my  habit 
to  resort  to  the  restaurant,  a  low-browed  wooden  build- 
[181] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

ing  with  the  appetizing  announcement : 

"Aristiu  di  montone" 

pasted  in  one  of  its  fly-blown  window-panes.  Here  the 
consumption  of  tough  macaroni  or  of  an  ambiguous 
frittura  sufficed  to  transport  me  to  the  Cappello  d'  Oro 
in  Venice,  while  my  cup  of  coffee  and  a  wasp-waisted 
cigar  with  a  straw  in  it  turned  my  greasy  table-cloth 
into  the  marble  top  of  one  of  the  little  round  tables 
under  the  arcade  of  the  Gaffe  Pedrotti  at  Padua.  This 
feat  of  the  imagination  was  materially  aided  by  Agos- 
tino,  the  hollow-eyed  and  low-collared  waiter,  whose 
slimy  napkin  never  lost  its  Latin  flourish  and  whose 
zeal  for  my  comfort  was  not  infrequently  displayed  by 
his  testing  the  warmth  of  my  soup  with  his  finger. 
Through  Agostino  I  became  acquainted  with  the  inner 
history  of  the  colony,  heard  the  details  of  its  feuds  and 
vendettas,  and  learned  to  know  by  sight  the  leading 
characters  in  these  domestic  dramas. 

The  restaurant  was  frequented  by  the  chief  person 
ages  of  the  community:  the  overseer  of  the  Italian 
hands  at  the  Meriton  Mills,  the  doctor,  his  wife  the 
levatrice  (a  plump  Neapolitan  with  greasy  ringlets,  a 
plush  picture-hat,  and  a  charm  against  the  evil-eye 
hanging  in  a  crease  of  her  neck)  and  lastly  by  Don 
Egidio,  the  parocco  of  the  little  church  across  the 
street.  The  doctor  and  his  wife  came  only  on  feast 
days,  but  the  overseer  and  Don  Egidio  were  regular 
[  182] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

patrons.  The  former  was  a  quiet  saturnine-looking  man, 
of  accomplished  manners  but  reluctant  speech,  and  I 
depended  for  my  diversion  chiefly  on  Don  Egidio, 
whose  large  loosely-hung  lips  were  always  ajar  for  con 
versation.  The  remarks  issuing  from  them  were  richly 
tinged  by  the  gutturals  of  the  Bergamasque  dialect, 
and  it  needed  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with  Italian 
types  to  detect  the  Lombard  peasant  under  the  priest's 
rusty  cassock.  This  inference  was  confirmed  by  Don 
Egidio's  telling  me  that  he  came  from  a  village  of  Val 
Camonica,  the  radiant  valley  which  extends  northward 
from  the  lake  of  Iseo  to  the  Adamello  glaciers.  His 
step-father  had  been  a  laborer  on  one  of  the  fruit-farms 
of  a  Milanese  count  who  owned  large  estates  in  the 
Val  Camonica;  and  that  gentleman,  taking  a  fancy  to 
the  lad,  whom  he  had  seen  at  work  in  his  orchards, 
had  removed  him  to  his  villa  on  the  lake  of  Iseo  and 
had  subsequently  educated  him  for  the  Church. 

It  was  doubtless  to  this  picturesque  accident  that 
Don  Egidio  owed  the  mingling  of  ease  and  simplicity 
that  gave  an  inimitable  charm  to  his  stout  shabby  pres 
ence.  It  was  as  though  some  wild  mountain-fruit  had 
been  transplanted  to  the  Count's  orchards  and  had  mel 
lowed  under  cultivation  without  losing  its  sylvan  flavor. 
I  have  never  seen  the  social  art  carried  farther  with 
out  suggestion  of  artifice.  The  fact  that  Don  Egidio's 
amenities  were  mainly  exercised  on  the  mill-hands 
[  183] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

composing  his  parish  proved  the  genuineness  of  his 
gift.  It  is  easier  to  simulate  gentility  among  gentlemen 
than  among  navvies ;  and  the  plain  man  is  a  touchstone 
who  draws  out  all  the  alloy  in  the  gold. 

Among  his  parishioners  Don  Egidio  ruled  writh  the 
cheerful  despotism  of  the  good  priest.  On  cardinal 
points  he  was  inflexible,  but  in  minor  matters  he  had 
that  elasticity  of  judgment  which  enables  the  Catholic 
discipline  to  fit  itself  to  every  inequality  of  the  human 
conscience.  There  was  no  appeal  from  his  verdict;  but 
his  judgment-seat  was  a  revolving  chair  from  which  he 
could  view  the  same  act  at  various  angles.  His  influ 
ence  was  acknowledged  not  only  by  his  flock,  but  by 
the  policeman  at  the  corner,  the  "bar-keep"'  in  the 
dive,  the  ward  politician  in  the  corner  grocery.  The 
general  verdict  of  Dunstable  was  that  the  Point  would 
have  been  hell  without  the  priest.  It  was  perhaps  not 
precisely  heaven  with  him;  but  such  light  of  the  upper 
sky  as  pierced  its  murky  atmosphere  was  reflected  from 
Don  Egidio's  countenance.  It  is  hardly  possible  for  any 
one  to  exercise  such  influence  without  taking  plea 
sure  in  it;  and  on  the  whole  the  priest  was  probably 
a  contented  man;  though  it  does  not  follow  that  he 
was  a  happy  one.  On  this  point  the  first  stages  of  our 
acquaintance  yielded  much  food  for  conjecture.  At 
first  sight  Don  Egidio  was  the  image  of  cheerfulness. 
He  had  all  the  physical  indications  of  a  mind  at  ease: 
[184] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

the  leisurely  rolling  gait,  the  ready  laugh,  the  hospit 
able  eye  of  the  man  whose  sympathies  are  always  on 
the  latch.  It  took  me  some  time  to  discover  under  his 
surface  garrulity  the  impenetrable  reticence  of  his  pro 
fession,  and  under  his  enjoyment  of  trifles  a  levelling 
melancholy  which  made  all  enjoyment  trifling.  Don 
Egidio's  aspect  and  conversation  were  so  unsuggestive 
of  psychological  complexities  that  I  set  down  this  trait 
to  poverty  or  home-sickness.  There  are  few  classes  of 
men  more  frugal  in  tastes  and  habit  than  the  village 
priest  in  Italy;  but  Don  Egidio,  by  his  own  account, 
had  been  introduced,  at  an  impressionable  age,  to  a 
way  of  living  that  must  have  surpassed  his  wildest 
dreams  of  self-indulgence.  To  whatever  privations  his 
parochial  work  had  since  accustomed  him,  the  influ 
ences  of  that  earlier  life  were  too  perceptible  in  his 
talk  not  to  have  made  a  profound  impression  on  his 
tastes;  and  he  remained,  for  all  his  apostolic  simplicity, 
the  image  of  the  family  priest  who  has  his  seat  at  the 
rich  man's  table. 

It  chanced  that  I  had  used  one  of  my  short  Euro 
pean  holidays  to  explore  afoot  the  romantic  passes  con 
necting  the  Valtelline  with  the  lake  of  Iseo;  and  my 
remembrance  of  that  enchanting  region  made  it  seem 
impossible  that  Don  Egidio  should  ever  look  without 
a  reminiscent  pang  on  the  grimy  perspective  of  his 
parochial  streets.  The  transition  was  too  complete,  too 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

ironical,  from  those  rich  glades  and  Titianesque  acclivi 
ties  to  the  brick  hovels  and  fissured  sidewalks  of  the 
Point. 

This  impression  was  confirmed  when  Don  Egidio,  in 
response  to  my  urgent  invitation,  paid  his  first  visit  to 
my  modest  lodgings.  He  called  one  winter  evening, 
when  a  wood-fire  in  its  happiest  humor  was  giving  a 
factitious  lustre  to  my  book-shelves  and  bringing  out 
the  values  of  the  one  or  two  old  prints  and  Chinese 
porcelains  that  accounted  for  the  perennial  shabbiness 
of  my  wardrobe. 

"Ah,"  said  he  with  a  murmur  of  satisfaction,  as  he 
laid  aside  his  shiny  hat  and  bulging  umbrella,  "it  is  a 
long  time  since  I  have  been  in  a  casa  signorile." 

My  remembrance  of  his  own  room  (he  lodged  with 
the  doctor  and  the  levatrice)  saved  this  epithet  from  the 
suggestion  of  irony  and  kept  me  silent  while  he  sank 
into  my  arm-chair  with  the  deliberation  of  a  tired 
traveller  lowering  himself  gently  into  a  warm  bath. 

"Good!  good!"  he  repeated,  looking  about  him. 
"Books,  porcelains,  objects  of  virtu  —  I  am  glad  to  see 
that  there  are  still  such  things  in  the  world!"  And  he 
turned  a  genial  eye  on  the  glass  of  Marsala  that  I  had 
poured  out  for  him. 

Don  Egidio  was  the  most  temperate  of  men  and 
never  exceeded  his  one  glass;  but  he  liked  to  sit  by 
the  hour  puffing  at  my  Cabanas,  which  I  suspected  him 
[186] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

of  preferring  to  the  black  weed  of  his  native  country. 
Under  the  influence  of  my  tobacco  he  became  even 
more  blandly  garrulous,  and  I  sometimes  fancied  that 
of  all  the  obligations  of  his  calling  none  could  have 
placed  such  a  strain  on  him  as  that  of  preserving  the 
secrets  of  the  confessional.  He  often  talked  of  his 
early  life  at  the  Count's  villa,  where  he  had  been  edu 
cated  with  his  patron's  two  sons  till  he  was  of  age  to 
be  sent  to  the  seminary;  and  I  could  see  that  the  years 
spent  in  simple  and  familiar  intercourse  with  his  bene 
factors  had  been  the  most  vivid  chapter  in  his  experi 
ence.  The  Italian  peasant's  inarticulate  tenderness  for 
the  beauty  of  his  birthplace  had  been  specialized  in 
him  by  contact  with  cultivated  tastes,  and  he  could  tell 
me  not  only  that  the  Count  had  a  "stupendous"  collec 
tion  of  pictures,  but  that  the  chapel  of  the  villa  con 
tained  a  sepulchral  monument  by  Bambaja,  and  that 
the  art-critics  were  divided  as  to  the  authenticity  of 
the  Leonardo  in  the  family  palace  at  Milan. 

On  all  these  subjects  he  was  inexhaustibly  voluble; 
but  there  was  one  point  which  he  always  avoided,  and 
that  was  his  reason  for  coming  to  America.  I  remem 
ber  the  round  turn  with  which  he  brought  me  up  when 
I  questioned  him. 

"A  priest,"  said  he,  "is  a  soldier  and  must  obey 
orders  like  a  soldier."  He  set  down  his  glass  of  Marsala 
and  strolled  across  the  room.  f(l  had  not  observed,"  he 
[  187  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

went  on,  "that  you  have  here  a  photograph  of  the 
Sposalizio  of  the  Brera.  What  a  picture!  E  stupendo!" 
and  he  turned  back  to  his  seat  and  smilingly  lit  a  fresh 
cigar. 

I  saw  at  once  that  I  had  hit  on  a  point  where  his 
native  garrulity  was  protected  by  the  chain-mail  of 
religious  discipline  that  every  Catholic  priest  wears 
beneath  his  cassock.  I  had  too  much  respect  for  my 
friend  to  wish  to  penetrate  his  armor,  and  now  and 
then  I  almost  fancied  he  was  grateful  to  me  for  not 
putting  his  reticence  to  the  test. 

Don  Egidio  must  have  been  past  sixty  when  I  made 
his  acquaintance ;  but  it  was  not  till  the  close  of  an  ex 
ceptionally  harsh  winter,  some  five  or  six  years  after 
our  first  meeting,  that  I  began  to  think  of  him  as  an 
old  man.  It  wTas  as  though  the  long-continued  cold  had 
cracked  and  shrivelled  him.  He  had  grown  bent  and 
hollow-chested  and  his  lower  lip  shook  like  an  unhinged 
door.  The  summer  heat  did  little  to  revive  him,  and  in 
September,  when  I  came  home  from  my  vacation,  I 
found  him  just  recovering  from  an  attack  of  pneu 
monia.  That  autumn  he  did  not  care  to  venture  often 
into  the  night  air,  and  now  and  then  I  used  to  go  and 
sit  with  him  in  his  little  room,  to  which  I  had  con 
tributed  the  unheard-of  luxuries  of  an  easy-chair  and 
a  gas-stove. 

My  engagements,  however,  made  these  visits  infre- 
[  188  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

quent,  and  several  weeks  had  elapsed  without  my  see 
ing  the  parocco  when,,  one  snowy  November  morning,  I 
ran  across  him  in  the  railway-station.  I  was  on  my  way 
to  New  York  for  the  day  and  had  just  time  to  wave  a 
greeting  to  him  as  I  jumped  into  the  railway-carriage; 
but  a  moment  later,  to  my  surprise,  I  saw  him  stiffly 
clambering  into  the  same  train.  I  found  him  seated  in 
the  common  car,  with  his  umbrella  between  his  knees 
and  a  bundle  done  up  in  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  on 
the  seat  at  his  side.  The  caution  with  wrhich,  at  my  ap 
proach,  he  transferred  this  bundle  to  his  arms  caused 
me  to  glance  at  it  in  surprise ;  and  he  answered  my  look 
by  saying  with  a  smile: 

"They  are  flowers  for  the  dead — the  most  exquisite 

flowers — from    the    greenhouses   of    Mr.    Meriton si 

Jiguri!"  And  he  waved  a  descriptive  hand.  "One  of  my 
lads,  Gianpietro,  is  employed  by  the  gardener  there, 
and  every  year  on  this  day  he  brings  me  a  beautiful 
bunch  of  flowers  —  for  such  a  purpose  it  is  no  sin,"  he 
added,  with  the  charming  Italian  pliancy  of  judgment. 
"  And  why  are  you  travelling  in  this  snowy  weather, 
signor parocco?"  I  asked,  as  he  ended  with  a  cough. 

He  fixed  me  gravely  with  his  simple  shallow  eye. 
"Because  it  is  the  day  of  the  dead,  my  son,"  he  said, 
"and  I  go  to  place  these  on  the  grave  of  the  noblest 
man  that  ever  lived." 

"You  are  going  to  New  York?" 

I  189  J 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"To  Brooklyn  —  " 

I  hesitated  a  moment,  wishing  to  question  him,  yet 
uncertain  whether  his  replies  were  curtailed  by  the 
persistency  of  his  cough  or  by  the  desire  to  avoid  in 
terrogation. 

"This  is  no  weather  to  be  travelling  with  such  a 
cough/'  I  said  at  length. 

He  made  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"I  have  never  missed  the  day — not  once  in  eighteen 
years.  But  for  me  he  would  have  no  one!"  He  folded 
his  hands  on  his  umbrella  and  looked  away  from  me  to 
hide  the  trembling  of  his  lip. 

I  resolved  on  a  last  attempt  to  storm  his  confidence, 
"Your  friend  is  buried  in  Calvary  cemetery?" 

He  signed  an  assent. 

"That  is  a  long  way  for  you  to  go  alone,  signor  pa- 
rocco.  The  streets  are  sure  to  be  slippery  and  there  is 
an  icy  wind  blowing.  Give  me  your  flowers  and  let  me 
send  them  to  the  cemetery  by  a  messenger.  I  give  you 
my  word  they  shall  reach  their  destination  safely." 

He  turned  a  quiet  look  on  me.  "My  son,  you  are 
young,"  he  said,  "and  you  don't  know  how  the  dead 
need  us."  He  drew  his  breviary  from  his  pocket  and 
opened  it  with  a  smile.  "Mi  sciisi?"  he  murmured. 

The  business  which  had  called  me  to  town  obliged 
me  to  part  from  him  as  soon  as  the  train  entered  the 
station,  and  in  my  dash  for  the  street  I  left  his  un- 

[  Uio] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

wieldy  figure  laboring  far  behind  me  through  the 
crowd  on  the  platform.  Before  we  separated,  however, 
I  had  learned  that  he  was  returning  to  Dunstable  by 
the  four  o'clock  train,  and  had  resolved  to  despatch 
my  business  in  time  to  travel  home  with  him.  When  I 
reached  Wall  Street  I  was  received  with  the  news  that 
the  man  I  had  appointed  to  meet  was  ill  and  detained 
in  the  country.  My  business  was  "off"  and  I  found  my 
self  with  the  rest  of  the  day  at  my  disposal.  I  had  no 
difficulty  in  deciding  how  to  employ  my  time.  I  was  at 
an  age  when,  in  such  contingencies,  there  is  always  a 
feminine  alternative ;  and  even  now  I  don't  know  how 
it  was  that,  on  my  way  to  a  certain  hospitable  luncheon- 
table,  I  suddenly  found  myself  in  a  cab  which  was  carry 
ing  me  at  full-speed  to  the  Twenty-third  Street  ferry. 
It  was  not  till  I  had  bought  my  ticket  and  seated  my 
self  in  the  varnished  tunnel  of  the  ferry-boat  that  I  was 
aware  of  having  been  diverted  from  my  purpose  by  an 
overmastering  anxiety  for  Don  Egidio.  I  rapidly  calcu 
lated  that  he  had  not  more  than  an  hour's  advance 
on  me,  and  that,  allowing  for  my  greater  agility  and 
for  the  fact  that  I  had  a  cab  at  my  call,  I  was  likely 
to  reach  the  cemetery  in  time  to  see  him  under  shel 
ter  before  the  gusts  of  sleet  that  were  already  sweep 
ing  across  the  river  had  thickened  to  a  snow-storm. 

At  the  gates  of  the  cemetery  I  began  to  take  a  less 
sanguine  view  of  my  attempt.  The  commemorative  an- 
[191  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

niversary  had  filled  the  silent  avenues  with  visitors,  and 
I  felt  the  futility  of  my  quest  as  I  tried  to  fix  the  gate 
keeper's  attention  on  my  delineation  of  a  stout  Italian 
priest  with  a  bad  cough  and  a  bunch  of  flowers  tied  up 
in  a  red  cotton  handkerchief.  The  gate-keeper  showed 
that  delusive  desire  to  oblige  that  is  certain  to  send  its 
victims  in  the  wrong  direction;  but  I  had  the  presence 
of  mind  to  go  exactly  contrary  to  his  indication,  and 
thanks  to  this  precaution  I  came,  after  half  an  hour's 
search,  on  the  figure  of  my  poor  parocco,  kneeling  on 
the  wet  ground  in  one  of  the  humblest  by-ways  of  the 
great  necropolis.  The  mound  before  which  he  knelt  was 
strewn  with  the  spoils  of  Mr.  Meriton's  conservatories, 
and  on  the  weather-worn  tablet  at  its  head  I  read  the 
inscription: 

IL  CONTE  SIVIANO 

DA    MlLANO. 

Super  flumina  Babylonia,  illic  sedimus  etflevimus. 

So  engrossed  was  Don  Egidio  that  for  some  moments  I 
stood  behind  him  unobserved;  and  when  he  rose  and 
faced  me,  grief  had  left  so  little  room  for  any  minor 
emotion  that  he  looked  at  me  almost  without  surprise. 

"Don  Egidio,"  I  said,  "I  have  a  carriage  waiting  for 
you  at  the  gate.  You  must  come  home  with  me." 

He  nodded  quietly  and  I  drew  his  hand  through  my 
arm. 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

He  turned  back  to  the  grave.  "One  moment,  mj 
son,"  he  said.  "It  may  be  for  the  last  time."  He  stood 
motionless,  his  eyes  on  the  heaped-up  flowers  which 
were  already  bruised  and  blackened  by  the  cold.  "To 
leave  him  alone — after  sixty  years!  But  God  is  every 
where—  "  he  murmured  as  I  led  him  away. 

On  the  journey  home  he  did  not  care  to  talk,  and 
my  chief  concern  was  to  keep  him  wrapped  in  my  great 
coat  and  to  see  that  his  bed  was  made  ready  as  soon  as 
I  had  restored  him  to  his  lodgings.  The  levatrice  brought 
a  quilted  coverlet  from  her  own  room  and  hovered  over 
him  as  gently  as  though  he  had  been  of  the  sex  to  re 
quire  her  services ;  while  Agostino,  at  my  summons,  ap 
peared  with  a  bowl  of  hot  soup  that  was  heralded  down 
the  street  by  a  reviving  waft  of  garlic.  To  these  minis 
trations  I  left  the  parocco,  intending  to  call  for  news  of 
him  the  next  evening;  but  an  unexpected  pressure  of 
work  kept  me  late  at  my  desk,  and  the  following  day 
some  fresh  obstacle  delayed  me. 

On  the  third  afternoon,  as  I  was  leaving  the  office, 
an  agate-eyed  infant  from  the  Point  hailed  me  with  a 
message  from  the  doctor.  The  parocco  was  worse  and 
had  asked  for  rne.  I  jumped  into  the  nearest  car  and 
ten  minutes  later  was  running  up  the  doctor's  greasy 
stairs. 

To  my  dismay  I  found  Don  Egidio's  room  cold  and 
untenanted;  but  I  was  reassured  a  moment  later  by 
[  193  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

the  appearance  of  the  levatrice,  who  announced  that  she 
had  transferred  the  blessed  man  to  her  own  apartment, 
where  he  could  have  the  sunlight  and  a  good  bed  to  lie 
in.  There  in  fact  he  lay,  weak  but  smiling,  in  a  setting 
which  contrasted  oddly  enough  with  his  own  monastic 
surroundings:  a  cheerful  grimy  room,  hung  with  anec 
dotic  chromos,  photographs  of  lady-patients  proudly 
presenting  their  offspring  to  the  camera,  and  innumer 
able  Neapolitan  santolini  decked  out  with  shrivelled 
palm-leaves. 

The  levatrice  whispered  that  the  good  man  had  the 
pleurisy,  and  that,  as  she  phrased  it,  he  was  nearing  his 
last  mile-stone.  I  saw  that  he  was  in  fact  in  a  bad  way, 
but  his  condition  did  not  indicate  any  pressing  danger, 
and  I  had  the  presentiment  that  he  would  still,  as  the 
saying  is,  put  up  a  good  fight.  It  was  clear,  however, 
that  he  knew  what  turn  the  conflict  must  take,  and  the 
solemnity  with  which  he  welcomed  me  showed  that 
my  summons  was  a  part  of  that  spiritual  strategy  with 
which  the  Catholic  opposes  the  surprise  of  death. 

"My  son,"  he  said,  when  the  levatrice  had  left  us,  "I 
have  a  favor  to  ask  you.  You  found  me  yesterday  bid 
ding  good-bye  to  my  best  friend."  His  cough  inter 
rupted  him.  "I  have  never  told  you,"  he  went  on,  "the 
name  of  the  family  in  which  I  was  brought  up.  It  was 
Siviano,  and  that  was  the  grave  of  the  Count's  eldest 
son,  with  whom  I  grew  up  as  a  brother.  For  eighteen 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

years  he  has  lain  in  that  strange  ground — in  terra  aliena 
— and  when  I  die,  there  will  be  no  one  to  care  for  his 
grave." 

I  saw  what  he  waited  for.  "I  will  care  for  it,  signor 
parocco" 

"I  knew  I  should  have  your  promise,  my  child;  and 
what  you  promise  you  keep.  But  my  friend  is  a  stranger 
to  you — you  are  young  and  at  your  age  life  is  a  mis 
tress  who  kisses  away  sad  memories.  Why  should  you 
remember  the  grave  of  a  stranger?  I  cannot  lay  such  a 
claim  on  you.  But  I  will  tell  you  his  story — and  then  I 
think  that  neither  joy  nor  grief  will  let  you  forget  him ; 
for  when  you  rejoice  you  will  remember  how  he  sor 
rowed;  and  when  you  sorrow  the  thought  of  him  will 
be  like  a  friend's  hand  in  yours." 

II 

YOU  tell  me  (Don  Egidio  began)  that  you  know 
our  little  lake;  and  if  you  have  seen  it  you  will 
understand  why  it  always  used  to  remind  me  of  the 
"garden  enclosed"  of  the  Canticles. 

Hortus  inclusus;  columba  mea  in  Jorammibus  petrce:  the 
words  used  to  come  back  to  me  whenever  I  returned 
from  a  day's  journey  across  the  mountains,  and  look 
ing  down  saw  the  blue  lake  far  below,  hidden  in  its 
hills  like  a  happy  secret  in  a  stern  heart.  We  were 
never  envious  of  the  glory  of  the  great  lakes.  They  are 
[  195] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

like  the  show  pictures  that  some  nobleman  hangs  in 
his  public  gallery;  but  our  Iseo  is  the  treasure  that  he 
hides  in  his  inner  chamber. 

You  tell  me  you  saw  it  in  summer,  when  it  looks 
up  like  a  saint's  eye,  reflecting  the  whole  of  heaven. 
It  was  then  too  that  I  first  saw  it.  My  future  friend, 
the  old  Count,  had  found  me  at  work  on  one  of  his 
fruit-farms  up  the  valley,  and  hearing  that  I  was  ill- 
treated  by  my  step-father — a  drunken  pedlar  from  the 
Val  Mastellone,  whom  my  poor  mother  a  year  or  two 
earlier  had  come  across  at  the  fair  of  Lovere — he  had 
taken  me  home  with  him  to  Iseo.  I  used  to  serve  mass 
in  our  hill-village  of  Cerveno,  and  the  village  children 
called  me  "the  little  priest"  because  when  my  work 
was  done  I  often  crept  back  to  the  church  to  get 
away  from  my  step-father's  blows  and  curses.  "I  will 
make  a  real  priest  of  him,"  the  Count  declared;  and 
that  afternoon,  perched  on  the  box  of  his  travelling- 
carriage,  I  was  whirled  away  from  the  dark  scenes  of 
my  childhood  into  a  world  where,  as  it  seemed  to  me, 
every  one  was  as  happy  as  an  angel  on  a  presepio. 

I  wonder  if  you  remember  the  Count's  villa?  It  lies 
on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  facing  the  green  knoll  of 
Monte  Isola,  and  overlooked  by  the  village  of  Siviano 
and  by  the  old  parish-church  where  I  said  mass  for 
fifteen  happy  years.  The  village  hangs  on  a  ledge  of 
the  mountain  \  but  the  villa  dips  its  foot  in  the  lake* 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

smiling  at  its  reflection  like  a  bather  lingering  on  the 
brink.  What  Paradise  it  seemed  to  me  that  day!  In 
our  church  up  the  valley  there  hung  an  old  brown 
picture,  with  a  Saint  Sabastian  in  the  foreground ;  and 
behind  him  the  most  wonderful  palace,  with  terraced 
gardens  adorned  with  statues  and  fountains,  where 
fine  folk  in  resplendent  dresses  walked  up  and  down 
without  heeding  the  blessed  martyr's  pangs.  The 
Count's  villa,  with  its  terraces,  its  roses,  its  marble 
steps  descending  to  the  lake,  reminded  me  of  that 
palace;  only  instead  of  being  inhabited  by  wicked 
people  engrossed  in  their  selfish  pleasures  it  was  the 
home  of  the  kindest  friends  that  ever  took  a  poor  lad 
by  the  hand. 

The  old  Count  was  a  widower  when  I  first  knew 
him.  He  had  been  twice  married,  and  his  first  wife 
had  left  him  two  children,  a  son  and  a  daughter.  The 
eldest,  Donna  Marianna,  was  then  a  girl  of  twenty, 
who  kept  her  father's  house  and  was  a  mother  to  the 
two  lads.  She  was  not  handsome  or  learned,  and  had 
no  taste  for  the  world;  but  she  was  like  the  lavender- 
plant  in  a  poor  man's  window — just  a  little  gray  flower, 
but  a  sweetness  that  fills  the  whole  house.  Her  brother, 
Count  Roberto,  had  been  ailing  from  his  birth,  and  was 
a  studious  lad  with  a  melancholy  musing  face  such  as 
you  may  see  in  some  of  Titian's  portraits  of  young  men. 
He  looked  like  an  exiled  prince  dressed  in  mourning. 
[197] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

There  was  one  child  by  the  second  marriage,  Count 
Andrea,  a  boy  of  my  own  age,  handsome  as  a  Saint 
George,  but  not  as  kind  as  the  others.  No  doubt,  being 
younger,  he  was  less  able  to  understand  why  an  un 
couth  peasant  lad  should  have  been  brought  to  his 
father's  table;  and  the  others  were  so  fearful  of  hurt 
ing  my  feelings  that,  but  for  his  teasing,  I  might  never 
have  mended  my  clumsy  manners  or  learned  how  to 
behave  in  the  presence  of  my  betters.  Count  Andrea 
was  not  sparing  in  such  lessons,  and  Count  Roberto,  in 
spite  of  his  weak  arms,  chastised  his  brother  roundly 
when  he  thought  the  discipline  had  been  too  severe; 
but  for  my  part  it  seemed  to  me  natural  enough  that 
such  a  godlike  being  should  lord  it  over  a  poor  clod 
hopper  like  myself. 

Well — I  will  not  linger  over  the  beginning  of  my 
new  life  for  my  story  has  to  do  with  its  close.  Only  I 
should  like  to  make  you  understand  what  the  change 
meant  to  me — an  ignorant  peasant  lad,  coming  from 
hard  words  and  blows  and  a  smoke-blackened  hut  in 
the  hills  to  that  great  house  full  of  rare  and  beautiful 
things,  and  of  beings  who  seemed  to  me  even  more 
rare  and  beautiful.  Do  you  wonder  I  was  ready  to  kiss 
the  ground  they  trod,  and  would  have  given  the  last 
drop  of  my  blood  to  serve  them? 

In  due  course  I  was  sent  to  the  seminary  at  Lodi; 
and  on  holidays  I  used  to  visit  the  family  in  Milan. 
[  198] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

Count  Andrea  was  growing  up  to  be  one  of  the  hand 
somest  young  men  imaginable,  but  a  trifle  wild;  and 
the  old  Count  married  him  in  haste  to  the  daughter 
of  a  Venetian  noble,  who  brought  as  her  dower  a  great 
estate  in  Istria.  The  Countess  Gemma,  as  this  lady  was 
called,  was  as  light  as  thistledown  and  had  an  eye  like 
a  baby's;  but  while  she  was  cooing  for  the  moon  her 
pretty  white  hands  were  always  stealing  toward  some 
thing  within  reach  that  she  had  not  been  meant  to 
have.  The  old  Count  was  not  alert  enough  to  follow 
these  manoeuvres;  and  the  Countess  hid  her  designs 
under  a  torrent  of  guileless  chatter,  as  pick-pockets 
wear  long  sleeves  to  conceal  their  movements.  Her* 
only  fault,  he  used  to  say,  was  that  one  of  her  aunts 
had  married  an  Austrian;  and  this  event  having  taken 
place  before  she  was  born  he  laughingly  acquitted 
her  of  any  direct  share  in  it.  She  confirmed  his  good 
opinion  of  her  by  giving  her  husband  two  sons;  and 
Roberto  showing  no  inclination  to  marry,  these  boys 
naturally  came  to  be  looked  on  as  the  heirs  of  the 
house. 

Meanwhile  I  had  finished  my  course  of  studies,  and 
the  old  Count,  on  my  twenty-first  birthday,  had  ap 
pointed  me  priest  of  the  parish  of  Siviano.  It  was  the 
year  of  Count  Andrea's  marriage  and  there  were  great 
festivities  at  the  villa.  Three  years  later  the  old  Count 
died,  to  the  sorrow  of  his  two  eldest  children.  Donna 
[  199] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

Marianna  and  Count  Roberto  closed  their  apartments 
in  the  palace  at  Milan  and  withdrew  for  a  year  to  Sivi- 
ano.  It  was  then  that  I  first  began  to  know  my  friend. 
Before  that  I  had  loved  him  without  understanding 
him;  now  I  learned  of  what  metal  he  was  made.  His 
bookish  tastes  inclined  him  to  a  secluded  way  of  liv 
ing;  and  his  younger  brother  perhaps  fancied  that  he 
would  not  care  to  assume  the  charge  of  the  estate.  But 
if  Andrea  thought  this  he  was  disappointed.  Roberto 
resolutely  took  up  the  tradition  of  his  father's  rule, 
and,  as  if  conscious  of  lacking  the  old  Count's  easy  way 
with  the  peasants,  made  up  for  it  by  a  redoubled  zeal 
for  their  welfare.  I  have  seen  him  toil  for  days  to  adjust 
some  trifling  difficulty  that  his  father  would  have  set 
right  with  a  ready  word;  like  the  sainted  bishop  who, 
when  a  beggar  asked  him  for  a  penny,  cried  out:  "Alas, 
my  brother,  I  have  not  a  penny  in  my  purse ;  but  here 
are  two  gold  pieces,  if  they  can  be  made  to  serve  you 
instead!"  We  had  many  conferences  over  the  condition 
of  his  people,  and  he  often  sent  me  up  the  valley  to 
look  into  the  needs  of  the  peasantry  on  the  fruit-farms. 
No  grievance  was  too  trifling  for  him  to  consider  it,  no 
abuse  too  deep-seated  for  him  to  root  it  out;  and  many 
an  hour  that  other  men  of  his  rank  would  have  given 
to  books  or  pleasure  was  devoted  to  adjusting  a  quarrel 
about  boundary-lines  or  to  weighing  the  merits  of  a 
complaint  against  the  tax-collector.  I  often  said  that 
[  200  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

he  was  as  much  his  people's  priest  as  I ;  and  he  smiled 
and  answered  that  every  landowner  was  a  king  and 
that  in  old  days  the  king  was  always  a  priest. 

Donna  Marianna  was  urgent  with  him  to  marry,  but 
he  always  declared  that  he  had  a  family  in  his  tenantry, 
and  that,  as  for  a  wife,  she  had  never  let  him  feel  the 
want  of  one.  He  had  that  musing  temper  which  gives 
a  man  a  name  for  coldness;  though  in  fact  he  may  all 
the  while  be  storing  fuel  for  a  great  conflagration.  But 
to  me  he  whispered  another  reason  for  not  marrying. 
A  man,  he  said,  does  not  take  wife  and  rejoice  while 
his  mother  is  on  her  death-bed;  and  Italy,  his  mother, 
lay  dying,  with  the  foreign  vultures  waiting  to  tear  her 
apart. 

You  are  too  young  to  know  anything  of  those  days, 
my  son;  and  how  can  any  one  understand  them  who 
did  not  live  through  them?  Italy  lay  dying  indeed;  but 
Lombardy  was  her  heart,  and  the  heart  still  beat,  and 
sent  the  faint  blood  creeping  to  her  cold  extremities. 
Her  torturers,  weary  of  their  work,  had  allowed  her  to 
fall  into  a  painless  stupor;  but  just  as  she  was  sinking 
from  sleep  to  death,  heaven  sent  Radetsky  to  scourge 
her  back  to  consciousness;  and  at  the  first  sting  of  his 
lash  she  sprang  maimed  and  bleeding  to  her  feet. 

Ah,  those  days,  those  days,  my  son!  Italy — Italy  — 
was  the  word  on  our  lips ;  but  the  thought  in  our  hearts 
was  just  Austria.  We  clamored  for  liberty,  unity,  the 
[201  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

franchise;  but  under  our  breath  we  prayed  only  to 
smite  the  white-coats.  Remove  the  beam  from  our  eye, 
we  cried,  and  we  shall  see  our  salvation  clearly  enough ! 
We  priests  in  the  north  were  all  liberals  and  worked 
with  the  nobles  and  the  men  of  letters,  Gioberti  was 
our  breviary  and  his  Holiness  the  new  Pope  was  soon 
to  be  the  Tancred  of  our  crusade.  But  meanwhile,  mind 
you,  all  this  went  on  in  silence,  underground  as  it  were, 
while  on  the  surface  L<ombardy  still  danced,  feasted, 
married,  and  took  office  under  the  Austrian.  In  the  iron- 
mines  up  our  valley  there  used  to  be  certain  miners 
who  stayed  below  ground  for  months  at  a  time;  and, 
like  one  of  these,  Roberto  remained  buried  in  his  pur 
pose,  while  life  went  its  way  overhead.  Though  I  was 
not  in  his  confidence  I  knew  well  enough  where  his 
thoughts  were,  for  he  went  among  us  with  the  eye  of 
a  lover,  the  visionary  look  of  one  who  hears  a  Voice. 
We  all  heard  that  Voice,  to  be  sure,  mingling  faintly 
with  the  other  noises  of  life;  but  to  Roberto  it  was 
already  as  the  roar  of  mighty  waters,  drowning  every 
other  sound  with  its  thunder. 

On  the  surface,  as  I  have  said,  things  looked  smooth 
enough.  An  Austrian  cardinal  throned  in  Milan  and  an 
Austrian-hearted  Pope  ruled  in  Rome.  In  Lombardy, 
Austria  couched  like  a  beast  of  prey,  ready  to  spring 
at  our  throats  if  we  stirred  or  struggled.  The  Moder 
ates,  to  whose  party  Count  Roberto  belonged,  talked 
[  202  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

of  prudence,  compromise,  the  education  of  the  masses; 
but  if  their  words  were  a  velvet  sheath  their  thought 
was  a  dagger.  For  many  years,  as  you  know,  the  Milan 
ese  had  maintained  an  outward  show  of  friendliness 
with  their  rulers.  The  nobles  had  accepted  office  under 
the  vice-roy,  and  in  the  past  there  had  been  frequent 
intermarriage  between  the  two  aristocracies.  But  now, 
one  by  one,  the  great  houses  had  closed  their  doors 
against  official  society.  Though  some  of  the  younger 
and  more  careless,  those  who  must  dance  and  dine 
at  any  cost,  still  went  to  the  palace  and  sat  beside 
the  enemy  at  the  opera,  fashion  was  gradually  taking 
sides  against  them,  and  those  who  had  once  been 
laughed  at  as  old  fogeys  were  now  applauded  as  pa 
triots.  Among  these,  of  course,  was  Count  Roberto, 
who  for  several  years  had  refused  to  associate  with 
the  Austrians,  and  had  silently  resented  his  easy-going 
brother's  disregard  of  political  distinctions.  Andrea  and 
Gemma  belonged  to  the  moth  tribe,  who  flock  to  the 
brightest  light;  and  Gemma's  Istrian  possessions,  and 
her  family's  connection  with  the  Austrian  nobility, 
gave  them  a  pretext  for  fluttering  about  the  vice 
regal  candle.  Roberto  let  them  go  their  way,  but  his 
own  course  was  a  tacit  protest  against  their  conduct. 
They  were  always  welcome  at  the  palazzo  Sivianoj  but 
he  and  Donna  Marianna  withdrew  from  society  in  or 
der  to  have  an  excuse  for  not  showing  themselves  at 
[  203  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

the  Countess  Gemma's  entertainments.  If  Andrea  and 
Gemma  were  aware  of  his  disapproval  they  were  clever 
enough  to  ignore  it;  for  the  rich  elder  brother  who 
paid  their  debts  and  never  meant  to  marry  was  too 
important  a  person  to  be  quarrelled  with  on  political 
grounds.  They  seemed  to  think  that  if  he  married  it 
would  be  only  to  spite  them ;  and  they  were  persuaded 
that  their  future  depended  on  their  giving  him  no 
cause  to  take  such  reprisals.  I  shall  never  be  more 
than  a  plain  peasant  at  heart  and  I  have  little  natural 
skill  in  discerning  hidden  motives;  but  the  experience 
of  the  confessional  gives  every  priest  a  certain  insight 
into  the  secret  springs  of  action,  and  I  often  wondered 
that  the  worldly  wisdom  of  Andrea  and  Gemma  did 
not  help  them  to  a  clearer  reading  of  their  brother's 
character.  For  my  part  I  knew  that,  in  Roberto's  heart, 
no  great  passion  could  spring  from  a  mean  motive ;  and 
I  had  always  thought  that  if  he  ever  loved  any  woman 
as  he  loved  Italy,  it  must  be  from  his  country's  hand 
that  he  received  his  bride.  And  so  it  came  about. 

Have  you  ever  noticed,  on  one  of  those  still  autumn 
days  before  a  storm,  how  here  and  there  a  yellow  leaf 
will  suddenly  detach  itself  from  the  bough  and  whirl 
through  the  air  as  though  some  warning  of  the  gale 
had  reached  it?  So  it  was  then  in  Lombardy.  All  round 
was  the  silence  of  decay ;  but  now  and  then  a  word,  a 
look,  a  trivial  incident,  fluttered  ominously  through  the 
[  204  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

stillness.  It  was  in  '45.  Only  a  year  earlier  the  glorious 
death  of  the  Bandiera  brothers  had  sent  a  long  shudder 
through  Italy.  In  the  Romagna,  Renzi  and  his  com 
rades  had  tried  to  uphold  by  action  the  protest  set 
forth  in  the  "Manifesto  of  Rimini";  and  their  failure 
had  sowed  the  seed  which  d'Azeglio  and  Cavour  were 
to  harvest.  Everywhere  the  forces  were  silently  gather 
ing;  and  nowhere  was  the  hush  more  profound,  the 
least  reverberation  more  audible,  than  in  the  streets 
of  Milan. 

It  was  Count  Roberto's  habit  to  attend  early  mass 
in  the  Cathedral ;  and  one  morning,  as  he  was  standing 
in  the  aisle,  a  young  girl  passed  him  with  her  father. 
Roberto  knew  the  father,  a  beggarly  Milanese  of  the 
noble  family  of  Intelvi,  who  had  cut  himself  off  from 
his  class  by  accepting  an  appointment  in  one  of  the 
government  offices.  As  the  two  went  by  he  saw  a 
group  of  Austrian  officers  looking  after  the  girl,  and 
heard  one  of  them  say:  "Such  a  choice  morsel  as  that 
is  too  good  for  slaves;"  and  another  answer  with  a 
laugh:  "Yes,  it's  a  dish  for  the  master's  table!" 

The  girl  heard  too.  She  was  as  white  as  a  wind- 
flower  and  he  saw  the  words  come  out  on  her  cheek 
like  the  red  mark  from  a  blow.  She  whispered  to  her 
father,  but  he  shook  his  head  and  drew  her  away  with 
out  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  Austrians.  Roberto 
heard  mass  and  then  hastened  out  and  placed  himself 
[205] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

in  the  porch  of  the  Cathedral.  A  moment  later  the 
officers  appeared,  and  they  too  stationed  themselves 
near  the  doorway.  Presently  the  girl  came  out  on  her 
father's  arm.  Her  admirers  stepped  forward  to  greet 
Intelvi;  and  the  cringing  wretch  stood  there  exchang 
ing  compliments  with  them,  while  their  insolent  stare 
devoured  his  daughter's  beauty.  She,  poor  thing,  shook 
like  a  leaf,  and  her  eyes,  in  avoiding  theirs,  suddenly 
encountered  Roberto's.  Her  look  was  a  wounded  bird 
that  flew  to  him  for  shelter.  He  carried  it  away  in  his 
breast  and  its  live  warmth  beat  against  his  heart.  He 
thought  that  Italy  had  looked  at  him  through  those 
eyes;  for  love  is  the  wiliest  of  masqueraders  and  has 
a  thousand  disguises  at  his  command. 

Within  a  month  Faustina  Intelvi  was  his  wife.  Donna 
Marianna  and  I  rejoiced;  for  we  knew  he  had  chosen 
her  because  he  loved  her,  and  she  seemed  to  us  almost 
worthy  of  such  a  choice.  As  for  Count  Andrea  and  his 
wife,  I  leave  you  to  guess  what  ingredients  were  min 
gled  in  the  kiss  with  which  they  welcomed  the  bride. 
They  were  all  smiles  at  Roberto's  marriage,  and  had 
only  words  of  praise  for  his  wife.  Donna  Marianna,  who 
had  sometimes  taxed  me  with  suspecting  their  motives, 
rejoiced  in  this  fresh  proof  of  their  magnanimity;  but 
for  my  part  I  could  have  wished  to  see  them  a  little 
less  kind.  All  such  twilight  fears,  however,  vanished 
,in  the  flush  of  my  friend's  happiness.  Over  some  n»- 
[  206  J 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

tures  love  steals  gradually,  as  the  morning  light  widens 
across  a  valley;  but  it  had  flashed  on  Roberto  like  the 
leap  of  dawn  to  a  snow-peak.  He  walked  the  world 
with  the  wondering  step  of  a  blind  man  suddenly  re 
stored  to  sight;  and  once  he  said  to  me  with  a  laugh: 
"Love  makes  a  Columbus  of  every  one  of  us!" 

And  the  Countess — ?  The  Countess,  my  son,  was 
eighteen,  and  her  husband  was  forty.  Count  Roberto 
had  the  heart  of  a  poet,  but  he  walked  with  a  limp  and 
his  skin  was  sallow.  Youth  plucks  the  fruit  for  its  color 
rather  than  its  flavor;  and  first  love  does  not  serenade 
its  mistress  on  a  church-organ.  In  Italy  girls  are  mar 
ried  as  land  is  sold;  if  two  estates  adjoin  two  lives  are 
united.  As  for  the  portionless  girl,  she  is  a  knick-knack 
that  goes  to  the  highest  bidder.  Faustina  was  handed 
over  to  her  purchaser  as  if  she  had  been  a  picture  for 
his  gallery;  and  the  transaction  doubtless  seemed  as 
natural  to  her  as  to  her  parents.  She  walked  to  the 
altar  like  an  Iphigenia;  but  pallor  becomes  a  bride, 
and  it  looks  well  for  a  daughter  to  weep  on  leaving 
her  mother.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  different  if 
she  had  guessed  that  the  threshold  of  her  new  home 
was  carpeted  with  love  and  its  four  corners  hung  with 
tender  thoughts  of  her;  but  her  husband  was  a  silent 
man,  who  never  called  attention  to  his  treasures. 

The  great  palace  in  Milan  was  a  gloomy  house  for 
a  girl  to  enter.  Roberto  and  his  sister  lived  in  it  as  if 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

it  had  been  a  monastery,  going  nowhere  and  receiving 
only  those  who  labored  for  the  Cause.  To  Faustina, 
accustomed  to  the  easy  Austrian  society,  the  Sunday 
evening  receptions  at  the  palazzo  Siviano  must  have 
seemed  as  dreary  as  a  scientific  congress.  It  pleased 
Roberto  to  regard  her  as  a  victim  of  barbarian  inso 
lence,  an  embodiment  of  his  country  desecrated  by  the 
desire  of  the  enemy;  but  though,  like  any  handsome 
penniless  girl,  Faustina  had  now  and  then  been  ex 
posed  to  a  free  look  or  a  familiar  word,  I  doubt  if  she 
connected  such  incidents  with  the  political  condition 
of  Italy.  She  knew,  of  course,  that  in  marrying  Siviano 
she  was  entering  a  house  closed  against  the  Austrian. 
One  of  Siviano' s  first  cares  had  been  to  pension  his 
father-in-law,  with  the  stipulation  that  Intelvi  should 
resign  his  appointment  and  give  up  all  relations  with 
the  government;  and  the  old  hypocrite,  only  too  glad 
to  purchase  idleness  on  such  terms,  embraced  the  lib 
eral  cause  with  a  zeal  which  left  his  daughter  no  excuse 
for  half-heartedness.  But  he  found  it  less  easy  than  he 
had  expected  to  recover  a  footing  among  his  own  peo 
ple.  In  spite  of  his  patriotic  bluster  the  Milanese  held 
aloof  from  him;  and  being  the  kind  of  man  who  must 
always  take  his  glass  in  company  he  gradually  drifted 
back  to  his  old  associates.  It  was  impossible  to  forbid 
Faustina  to  visit  her  parents;  and  in  their  house  she 
breathed  an  air  that  was  at  least  tolerant  of  Austria, 
[  208  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

But  I  must  not  let  you  think  that  the  young  Coun 
tess  appeared  ungrateful  or  unhappy.  She  was  silent 
and  shy,  and  it  needed  a  more  enterprising  temper 
than  Roberto's  to  break  down  the  barrier  between 
them.  They  seemed  to  talk  to  one  another  through  a 
convent-grating,  rather  than  across  a  hearth;  but  if 
Roberto  had  asked  more  of  her  than  she  could  give, 
outwardly  she  was  a  model  wife.  She  chose  me  at  once 
as  her  confessor  and  I  watched  over  the  first  steps  of 
her  new  life.  Never  was  younger  sister  tenderer  to  her 
elder  than  she  to  Donna  Marianna;  never  was  young 
wife  more  mindful  of  her  religious  duties,  kinder  to  her 
dependents,  more  charitable  to  the  poor;  yet  to  be  with 
her  was  like  living  in  a  room  with  shuttered  windows. 
She  was  always  the  caged  bird,  the  transplanted  flower: 
for  all  Roberto's  care  she  never  bloomed  or  sang. 

Donna  Marianna  was  the  first  to  speak  of  it.  "The 
child  needs  more  light  and  air,"  she  said. 

"Light?  Air?"  Roberto  repeated.  "Does  she  not  go 
to  mass  every  morning?  Does  she  not  drive  on  the 
Corso  every  evening?" 

Donna  Marianna  was  not  called  clever,  but  her  heart 
was  wiser  than  most  women's  heads. 

"At  our  age,  brother,'*  said  she,  "the  windows  of  the 
mind  face  north  and  look  out  on  a  landscape  full  of 
lengthening  shadows.  Faustina  needs  another  outlook. 
She  is  as  pale  as  a  hyacinth  grown  in  a  cellar." 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

Roberto  himself  turned  pale  and  I  saw  that  she  had 
uttered  his  own  thought. 

"You  want  me  to  let  her  go  to  Gemma's!"  he  ex 
claimed. 

"Let  her  go  wherever  there  is  a  little  careless 
laughter." 

"Laughter — now!"  he  cried,  with  a  gesture  toward 
the  sombre  line  of  portraits  above  his  head. 

"Let  her  laugh  while  she  can,  my  brother." 

That  evening  after  dinner  he  called  Faustina  to  him. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  "go  and  put  on  your  jewels. 
Your  sister  Gemma  gives  a  ball  to-night  and  the  car 
riage  waits  to  take  you  there.  I  am  too  much  of  a  re 
cluse  to  be  at  ease  in  such  scenes,  but  I  have  sent 
word  to  your  father  to  go  with  you." 

Andrea  and  Gemma  welcomed  their  young  sister- 
in-law  with  effusion,  and  from  that  time  she  was  often 
in  their  company.  Gemma  forbade  any  mention  of 
politics  in  her  drawing-room,  and  it  was  natural  that 
Faustina  should  be  glad  to  escape  from  the  solemn 
conclaves  of  the  palazzo  Siviano  to  a  house  where  life 
went  as  gaily  as  in  that  villa  above  Florence  where 
Boccaccio's  careless  story-tellers  took  refuge  from  the 
plague.  But  meanwhile  the  political  distemper  was 
rapidly  spreading,  and  in  spite  of  Gemma's  Austrian 
affiliations  it  was  no  longer  possible  for  her  to  receive 
the  enemy  openly.  It  was  whispered  that  her  door  was 
[210] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

still  ajar  to  her  old  friends;  but  the  rumor  may  have 
risen  from  the  fact  that  one  of  the  Austrian  cavalry 
officers  stationed  at  Milan  was  her  own  cousin,  the  son 
of  the  aunt  on  whose  misalliance  the  old  Count  had  so 
often  bantered  her.  No  one  could  blame  the  Countess 
Gemma  for  not  turning  her  own  flesh  and  blood  out 
of  doors;  and  the  social  famine  to  which  the  officers  of 
the  garrison  were  reduced  made  it  natural  that  young 
Welkenstern  should  press  the  claims  of  consanguinity. 

All  this  must  have  reached  Roberto's  ears;  but  he 
made  no  sign  and  his  wife  came  and  went  as  she 
pleased.  When  they  returned  the  following  year  to 
the  old  dusky  villa  at  Siviano  she  was  like  the  voice 
of  a  brook  in  a  twilight  wood:  one  could  not  look  at 
her  without  ransacking  the  spring  for  new  similes  to 
paint  her  freshness.  With  Roberto  it  was  different.  I 
found  him  older,  more  preoccupied  and  silent;  but 
I  guessed  that  his  preoccupations  were  political,  for 
when  his  eye  rested  on  his  wife  it  cleared  like  the 
lake  when  a  cloud-shadow  lifts  from  it. 

Count  Andrea  and  his  wife  occupied  an  adjoining 
villa;  and  during  the  villeggiatura  the  two  households 
lived  almost  as  one  family.  Roberto,  however,  was  often 
absent  in  Milan,  called  thither  on  business  of  which  the 
nature  was  not  hard  to  guess.  Sometimes  he  brought 
back  guests  to  the  villa;  and  on  these  occasions  Faus 
tina  and  Donna  Marianna  went  to  Count  Andrea's  for 
[211] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

the  day.  I  have  said  that  I  was  not  in  his  confidence; 
but  he  knew  my  sympathies  were  with  the  liberals  and 
now  and  then  he  let  fall  a  word  of  the  work  going 
on  underground.  Meanwhile  the  new  Pope  had  been 
elected,  and  from  Piedmont  to  Calabria  we  hailed  in 
him  the  Banner  that  was  to  lead  our  hosts  to  war. 

So  time  passed  and  we  reached  the  last  months  of 
'47.  The  villa  on  Iseo  had  been  closed  since  the  end 
of  August.  Roberto  had  no  great  liking  for  his  gloomy 
palace  in  Milan,  and  it  had  been  his  habit  to  spend 
nine  months  of  the  year  at  Siviano ;  but  he  was  now  too 
much  engrossed  in  his  work  to  remain  away  from 
Milan,  and  his  wife  and  sister  had  joined  him  there 
as  soon  as  the  midsummer  heat  was  over.  During  the 
autumn  he  had  called  me  once  or  twice  to  the  city 
to  consult  me  on  business  connected  with  his  fruit- 
farms  ;  and  in  the  course  of  our  talks  he  had  sometimes 
let  fall  a  hint  of  graver  matters.  It  was  in  July  of  that 
year  that  a  troop  of  Croats  had  marched  into  Ferrara, 
with  muskets  and  cannon  loaded.  The  lighted  matches 
of  their  camion  had  fired  the  sleeping  hate  of  Austria, 
and  the  whole  country  now  echoed  the  Lombard  cry: 
"Out  with  the  barbarian!"  All  talk  of  adjustment, 
compromise,  reorganization,  shrivelled  on  lips  that  the 
live  coal  of  patriotism  had  touched.  Italy  for  the  Ital 
ians,  and  then — monarchy,  federation,  republic,  it  mat 
tered  not  what! 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

The  oppressor's  grip  had  tightened  on  our  throats 
and  the  clear-sighted  saw  well  enough  that  Metter- 
nieh's  policy  wras  to  provoke  a  rebellion  and  then  crush 
it  under  the  Croat  heel.  But  it  was  too  late  to  cry  pru 
dence  in  Lombardy.  With  the  first  days  of  the  new 
year  the  tobacco  riots  had  drawn  blood  in  Milan.  Soon 
afterward  the  Lions'  Club  was  closed,  and  edicts  were 
issued  forbidding  the  singing  of  Pio  Nono's  hymn,  the 
wearing  of  white  and  blue,  the  collecting  of  subscrip 
tions  for  the  victims  of  the  riots.  To  each  prohibition 
Milan  returned  a  fresh  defiance.  The  ladies  of  the  no 
bility  put  on  mourning  for  the  rioters  who  had  been 
shot  down  by  the  soldiery.  Half  the  members  of  the 
Guardia  Nobile  resigned  and  Count  Borromeo  sent 
back  his  Golden  Fleece  to  the  Emperor.  Fresh  regi 
ments  were  continually  pouring  into  Milan  and  it  was 
no  secret  that  Radetsky  was  strengthening  the  fortifi 
cations.  Late  in  January  several  leading  liberals  were 
arrested  and  sent  into  exile,  and  two  weeks  later  mar 
tial  law  was  proclaimed  in  Milan.  At  the  first  arrests 
several  members  of  the  liberal  party  had  hastily  left 
Milan,  and  I  was  not  surprised  to  hear,  a  few  days 
later,  that  orders  had  been  given  to  reopen  the  villa  at 
Siviano.  The  Count  and  Countess  arrived  there  early  in 
February. 

It  was  seven  months  since  I  had  seen  the  Countess, 
and  I  was  struck  with  the  change  in  her  appearance. 
[213  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

She  was  paler  than  ever,  and  her  step  had  lost  its 
lightness.  Yet  she  did  not  seem  to  share  her  husband's 
political  anxieties;  one  would  have  said  that  she  was 
hardly  aware  of  them.  She  seemed  wrapped  in  a  veil 
of  lassitude,  like  Iseo  on  a  still  gray  morning,  when 
dawn  is  blood-red  on  the  mountains  but  a  mist  blurs 
its  reflection  in  the  lake.  I  felt  as  though  her  soul 
were  slipping  away  from  me,  and  longed  to  win  her 
back  to  my  care;  but  she  made  her  ill-health  a  pre 
text  for  not  coming  to  confession,  and  for  the  present 
I  could  only  wait  and  carry  the  thought  of  her  to  the 
altar.  She  had  not  been  long  at  Siviano  before  I  dis 
covered  that  this  drooping  mood  was  only  one  phase 
of  her  humor.  Now  and  then  she  flung  back  the  cowl 
of  melancholy  and  laughed  life  in  the  eye;  but  next 
moment  she  was  in  shadow  again,  and  her  muffled 
thoughts  had  given  us  the  slip.  She  was  like  the  lake 
on  one  of  those  days  when  the  wind  blows  twenty 
ways  and  every  promontory  holds  a  gust  in  ambush. 
Meanwhile  there  was  a  continual  coming  and  going 
of  messengers  between  Siviano  and  the  city.  They 
came  mostly  at  night,  when  the  household  slept,  and 
were  away  again  with  the  last  shadows;  but  the  news 
they  brought  stayed  and  widened,  shining  through 
every  cranny  of  the  old  house.  The  whole  of  Lom- 
bardy  was  up.  From  Pavia  to  Mantua,  from  Como  to 
Brescia,  the  streets  ran  blood  like  the  arteries  of  one 
[214] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

great  body.  At  Pavia  and  Padua  the  universities  were 
closed.  The  frightened  vice-roy  was  preparing  to  with 
draw  from  Milan  to  Verona,  and  Radetsky  continued 
to  pour  his  men  across  the  Alps,  till  a  hundred  thou 
sand  were  massed  between  the  Piave  and  the  Ticino. 
And  now  every  eye  was  turned  to  Turin.  Ah,  how 
we  watched  for  the  blue  banner  of  Piedmont  on  the 
mountains!  Charles  Albert  was  pledged  to  our  cause; 
his  whole  people  had  armed  to  rescue  us,  the  streets 
echoed  with  avanti,  Savoia!  and  yet  Savoy  was  silent 
and  hung  back.  Each  day  was  a  life-time  strained  to 
the  cracking-point  with  hopes  and  disappointments. 
We  reckoned  the  hours  by  rumors,  the  very  minutes 
by  hearsay.  Then  suddenly — ah,  it  was  worth  living 
through! — word  came  to  us  that  Vienna  was  in  revolt. 
The  points  of  the  compass  had  shifted  and  our  sun  had 
risen  in  the  north.  I  shall  never  forget  that  day  at  the 
villa.  Roberto  sent  for  me  early,  and  I  found  him  smil 
ing  and  resolute,  as  becomes  a  soldier  on  the  eve  of 
action.  He  had  made  all  his  preparations  to  leave  for 
Milan  and  was  awaiting  a  summons  from  his  party. 
The  whole  household  felt  that  great  events  impended, 
and  Donna  Marianna,  awed  and  tearful,  had  pleaded 
with  her  brother  that  they  should  all  receive  the  sac 
rament  together  the  next  morning.  Roberto  and  his 
sister  had  been  to  confession  the  previous  day,  but 
the  Countess  Faustina  had  again  excused  herself.  I 
[215] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

did  not  see  her  while  I  was  with  the  Count,  but  as  I 
left  the  house  she  met  me  in  the  laurel-walk.  The 
morning  was  damp  and  cold,  and  she  had  drawn  a 
black  scarf  over  her  hair,  and  walked  with  a  listless 
dragging  step;  but  at  my  approach  she  lifted  her  head 
quickly  and  signed  to  me  to  follow  her  into  one  of  the 
recesses  of  clipped  laurel  that  bordered  the  path. 

"Don  Egidio,"  she  said,  "you  have  heard  the 
news?" 

I  assented. 

"The  Count  goes  to  Milan  to-morrow?" 

"It  seems  probable,  your  excellency." 

te  There  will  be  fighting — we  are  on  the  eve  of  war, 
I  mean?" 

"We  are  in  God's  hands,  your  excellency." 

"In  God's  hands!"  she  murmured.  Her  eyes  wan 
dered  and  for  a  moment  we  stood  silent;  then  she 
drew  a  purse  from  her  pocket.  "I  was  forgetting,"  she 
exclaimed.  "This  is  for  that  poor  girl  you  spoke  to 
me  about  the  other  day — what  was  her  name?  The 
girl  who  met  the  Austrian  soldier  at  the  fair  at 
Peschiera— " 

"Ah,  Vannina,"  I  said;  "but  she  is  dead,  your  ex 
cellency." 

"Dead!"  She  turned  white  and  the  purse  dropped 
from  her  hand.  I  picked  it  up  and  held  it  out  to  her, 
but  »he  put  back  my  hand.  "That  is  for  masses,  then/' 
[216] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

she  said;  and  with  that  she  moved  away  toward  the 
house. 

I  walked  on  to  the  gate;  but  before  I  had  reached 
it  I  heard  her  step  behind  me. 

"Don  Egidio!"  she  called;  and  I  turned  back. 

"You  are  coming  to  say  mass  in  the  chapel  to-mor 
row  morning?" 

"That  is  the  Count's  wish." 

She  wavered  a  moment.  "I  am  not  well  enough  to 
walk  up  to  the  village  this  afternoon/'  she  said  at 
length.  *'Will  you  come  back  later  and  hear  my  con 
fession  here?" 

"Willingly,  your  excellency." 

"Come  at  sunset  then."  She  looked  at  me  gravely. 
"It  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  been  to  confession," 
she  added. 

"My  child,  the  door  of  heaven  is  always  unlatched." 

She  made  no  answer  and  I  went  my  way. 

I  returned  to  the  villa  a  little  before  sunset,  hoping 
for  a  few  words  with  Roberto.  I  felt  with  Faustina 
that  we  were  on  the  eve  of  war,  and  the  uncertainty 
of  the  outlook  made  me  treasure  every  moment  of  my 
friend's  company.  I  knew  he  had  been  busy  all  day, 
but  hoped  to  find  that  his  preparations  were  ended 
and  that  he  could  spare  me  a  half  hour.  I  was  not 
disappointed;  for  the  servant  who  met  me  asked  me 
[217  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

to  follow  him  to  the  Count's  apartment.  Roberto  was 
sitting  alone,  with  his  back  to  the  door,  at  a  table 
spread  with  maps  and  papers.  He  stood  up  and  turned 
an  ashen  face  on  me. 

"Roberto!"  I  cried,  as  if  we  had  been  boys  together 

He  signed  to  me  to  be  seated. 

"Egidio,"  he  said  suddenly,  "my  wife  has  sent  for 
you  to  confess  her?" 

"The  Countess  met  me  on  my  way  home  this  morn 
ing  and  expressed  a  wish  to  receive  the  sacrament 
to-morrow  morning  with  you  and  Donna  Marianna, 
and  I  promised  to  return  this  afternoon  to  hear  her 
confession." 

Roberto  sat  silent,  staring  before  him  as  though  he 
hardly  heard.  At  length  he  raised  his  head  and  began 
to  speak. 

"You  have  noticed  lately  that  my  wife  has  been 
ailing?"  he  asked. 

"  Every  one  must  have  seen  that  the  Countess  is 
not  in  her  usual  health.  She  has  seemed  nervous,  out 
of  spirits  —  I  have  fancied  that  she  might  be  anxious 
about  your  excellency." 

He  leaned  across  the  table  and  laid  his  wasted  hand 
on  mine.  "Call  me  Roberto,"  he  said. 

There  was  another  pause  before  he  went  on.  "Since 
I  saw  you  this  morning,"  he  said  slowly,  "something 
horrible  has  happened.  After  you  left  I  sent  for  An- 
[218  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

drea  and  Gemma  to  tell  them  the  news  from  Vienna 
and  the  probability  of  my  being  summoned  to  Milan 
before  night.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  we  have 
reached  a  crisis.  There  will  be  fighting  within  twenty- 
four  hours,  if  I  know  my  people;  and  war  may  follow 
sooner  than  we  think.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to  leave  my 
affairs  in  Andrea's  hands,  and  to  entrust  my  wife  to  his 
care.  Don't  look  startled,"  he  added  with  a  faint  smile. 
"No  reasonable  man  goes  on  a  journey  without  setting 
his  house  in  order;  and  if  things  take  the  turn  I  ex 
pect  it  may  be  some  months  before  you  see  me  back 
at  Siviano.  —  But  it  was  not  to  hear  this  that  I  sent 
for  you."  He  pushed  his  chair  aside  and  walked  up 
and  down  the  room  with  his  short  limping  step.  "My 
God!"  he  broke  out  wildly,  "how  can  I  say  it? — When 
Andrea  had  heard  me,  I  saw  him  exchange  a  glance 
with  his  wife,  and  she  said  with  that  infernal  sweet 
voice  of  hers,  'Yes,  Andrea,  it  is  our  duty.' 

"'Your  duty?'    I  asked.  'What  is  your  duty?' 

"Andrea  wetted  his  lips  with  his  tongue  and  looked 
at  her  again;  and  her  look  was  like  a  blade  in  his 
hand. 

"'Your  wife  has  a  lover,'  he  said. 

"She  caught  my  arm  as  I  flung  myself  on  him.  He 
is  ten  times  stronger  than  I,  but  you  remember  how 
I  made  him  howl  for  mercy  in  the  old  days  when  he 
used  to  bully  you. 

[  219] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

'"Let  me  go/  I  said  to  his  wife.  'He  must  live  to 
unsay  it.' 

"Andrea  began  to  whimper.  'Oh,  my  poor  brother, 
I  would  give  my  heart's  blood  to  unsay  it!' 

"'The  secret  has  been  killing  us/  she  chimed  in. 

"'The  secret?  Whose  secret?  How  dare  you  —  ?' 

"Gemma  fell  on  her  knees  like  a  tragedy  actress. 
'Strike  me — kill  me  —  it  is  I  who  am  the  offender! 
It  was  at  my  house  that  she  met  him — ' 

"'Him?' 

"'Franz  Welkenstern — my  cousin/  she  wailed. 

"I  suppose  I  stood  before  them  like  a  stunned  ox, 
for  they  repeated  the  name  again  and  again,  as  if  they 
were  not  sure  of  my  having  heard  it. — Not  hear  it!" 
he  cried  suddenly,  dropping  into  a  chair  and  hiding 
his  face  in  his  hands.  "Shall  I  ever  on  earth  hear 
anything  else  again?" 

He  sat  a  long  time  with  his  face  hidden  and  I 
waited.  My  head  was  like  a  great  bronze  bell  with 
one  thought  for  the  clapper. 

After  a  while  he  went  on  in  a  low  deliberate  voice, 
as  though  his  words  were  balancing  themselves  on 
the  brink  of  madness.  With  strange  composure  he  re 
peated  each  detail  of  his  brother's  charges:  the  meet 
ings  in  the  Countess  Gemma's  drawing-room,  the  in 
nocent  friendliness  of  the  two  young  people,  the  talk 
of  mysterious  visits  to  a  villa  outside  the  Porta  Tici- 
[  220  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

nese,  the  ever-widening  circle  of  scandal  that  had 
spread  about  their  names.  At  first,  Andrea  said,  he 
and  his  wife  had  refused  to  listen  to  the  reports  which 
reached  them.  Then,  when  the  talk  became  too  loud, 
they  had  sent  for  Welkenstern,  remonstrated  with  him, 
implored  him  to  exchange  into  another  regiment;  but 
in  vain.  The  young  officer  indignantly  denied  the  re 
ports  and  declared  that  to  leave  his  post  at  such  a 
moment  would  be  desertion. 

With  a  laborious  accuracy  Roberto  went  on,  detail 
ing  one  by  one  each  incident  of  the  hateful  story,  till 
suddenly  he  cried  out,  springing  from  his  chair — "And 
now  to  leave  her  with  this  lie  unburied !" 

His  cry  was  like  the  lifting  of  a  grave-stone  from 
my  breast.  "You  must  not  leave  her!"  I  exclaimed. 

He  shook  his  head.  "I  am  pledged." 

"This  is  your  first  duty." 

"It  would  be  any  other  man's;  not  an  Italian's." 

I  was  silent:  in  those  days  the  argument  seemed 
unanswerable. 

At  length  I  said:  "No  harm  can  come  to  her  while 
you  are  away.  Donna  Marianna  and  I  are  here  to  watch 
over  her.  And  when  you  come  back  — " 

He  looked  at  me  gravely.  "If  I  come  back  — " 

"Roberto!" 

"We  are  men,  Egidio;  we  both  know  what  is  com 
ing.  Milan  is  up  already;  and  there  is  a  rumor  that 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

Charles  Albert  is  moving.  This  year  the  spring  rains 
will  be  red  in  Italy." 

"In  your  absence  not  a  breath  shall  touch  her!" 

"And  if  I  never  come  back  to  defend  her?  They 
hate  her  as  hell  hates,  Egidio! — They  kept  repeating, 
'He  is  of  her  own  age  and  youth  draws  youth — .'  She 
is  in  their  way,  Egidio!" 

"Consider,  my  son.  They  do  not  love  her,  perhaps; 
but  why  should  they  hate  her  at  such  cost?  She  has 
given  you  no  child." 

"No  child!"  He  paused.  "But  what  if—?  She  has 
ailed  lately!"  he  cried,  and  broke  off  to  grapple  with 
the  stabbing  thought. 

"Roberto!  Roberto!"  I  adjured  him. 

He  jumped  up  and  gripped  my  arm. 

"Egidio!  You  believe  in  her?" 

"She's  as  pure  as  a  lily  on  the  altar!" 

" Those  eyes  are  wells  of  truth — and  she  has  been 
like  a  daughter  to  Marianna.  —  Egidio!  do  I  look  like 
an  old  man?" 

"Quiet  yourself,  Roberto,"  I  entreated. 

"Quiet  myself?  With  this  sting  in  my  blood?  A 
lover — and  an  Austrian  lover!  Oh,  Italy,  Italy,  my 
bride!" 

"I  stake  my  life  on  her  truth,"  I  cried,  "and  who 
knows  better  than  I?  Has  her  soul  not  lain  before  me 
like  the  bed  of  a  clear  stream?" 
[  222  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"And  if  what  you  saw  there  was  only  the  reflection 
of  your  faith  in  her?" 

"My  son,  I  am  a  priest,  and  the  priest  penetrates 
to  the  soul  as  the  angel  passed  through  the  walls  of 
Peter's  prison.  I  see  the  truth  in  her  heart  as  I  see 
Christ  in  the  host!" 

"No,  no,  she  is  false!"  he  cried. 

I  sprang  up  terrified.  "Roberto,  be  silent!" 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  wild  incredulous  smile,, 
"Poor  simple  man  of  God!"  he  said. 

"I  would  not  exchange  my  simplicity  for  yours  — 
the  dupe  of  envy's  first  malicious  whisper!" 

"Envy  — you  think  that?" 

"Is  it  questionable?" 

"You  would  stake  your  life  on  it?" 

"My  life!" 

"Your  faith?" 

"My  faith!" 

"Your  vows  as  a  priest?" 

"My  vows — "  I  stopped  and  stared  at  him.  He  had 
risen  and  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"You  see  now  what  I  would  be  at,"  he  said  quietly. 
"I  must  take  your  place  presently  — 

"My  place  —  ?" 

"When  my  wife  comes  down.  You  understand  me." 

"Ah,  now  you  are  quite  mad!"  I  cried  breaking 
away  from  him. 

[  223  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"Am  I?"  he  returned,  maintaining  his  strange  com 
posure.  "Consider  a  moment.   She  has  not  confessed 
to  you  before  since  our  return  from  Milan — " 
"Her  ill-health—" 

He  cut  me   short  with  a  gesture.  "Yet  to-day  she 
sends  for  you — " 

"In  order  that  she  may  receive  the  sacrament  with 
you  on  the  eve  of  your  first  separation." 

"If  that  is  her  only  reason  her  first  words  will  clear 
her.  I  must  hear  those  words,  Egidio!" 
"You  are  quite  mad/'  I  repeated. 
"Strange,"  he  said  slowly.  "You  stake  your  life  on 
my  wife's  innocence,  yet  you  refuse  me  the  only  means 
of  vindicating  it!" 

"I  would  give  my  life  for  any  one  of  you — but  what 
you  ask  is  not  mine  to  give." 

"The  priest  first — the  man  afterward?"  he  sneered. 
"Long  afterward!" 

He  measured  me  with  a  contemptuous  eye.  "We 
laymen  are  ready  to  give  the  last  shred  of  flesh  from 
our  bones,  but  you  priests  intend  to  keep  your  cas 
socks  whole." 

"I  tell  you  my  cassock  is  not  mine,"  I  repeated. 
"And,  by  God,"  he  cried,  "you  are  right;  for  it's 
mine!  Who  put  it  on  your  back  but  my  father?  What 
kept  it  there  but  my  charity?  Peasant!  beggar!  Hear 
his  holiness  pontificate!" 

[  224  j 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"Yes/'  I  said,  "I  was  a  peasant  and  a  beggar  when 
your  father  found  me ;  and  if  he  had  left  me  one  I 
might  have  been  excused  for  putting  my  hand  to  any 
ugly  job  that  my  betters  required  of  me ;  but  he  made 
me  a  priest,  and  so  set  me  above  all  of  you,  and  laid 
on  me  the  charge  of  your  souls  as  well  as  mine." 

He  sat  down  shaken  with  dreadful  tears.  "Ah,"  he 
broke  out,  "would  you  have  answered  me  thus  when 
we  were  boys  together,  and  I  stood  between  you  and 
Andrea  ?" 

"If  God  had  given  me  the  strength." 

"You  call  it  strength  to  make  a  woman's  soul  your 
stepping-stone  to  heaven?" 

"Her  soul  is  in  my  care,  not  yours,  my  son.  She  is 
safe  with  me." 

"She?  But  I?  I  go  out  to  meet  death,  and  leave  a 
worse  death  behind  me!"  He  leaned  over  and  clutched 
my  arm.  "It  is  not  for  myself  I  plead  but  for  her — for 
her,  Egidio!  Don't  you  see  to  what  a  hell  you  con 
demn  her  if  I  don't  come  back?  What  chance  has 
she  against  that  slow  unsleeping  hate?  Their  lies  will 
fasten  themselves  to  her  and  suck  out  her  life.  You 
and  Marianna  are  powerless  against  such  enemies." 

"You  leave  her  in  God's  hands,  my  son." 

"Easily  said — but,  ah,  priest,  if  you  were  a  man! 
What  if  their  poison  works  in  me  and  I  go  to  battle 
thinking  that  every  Austrian  bullet  may  be  sent  by 
[225  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

her  lover's  hand?  What  if  I  die  not  only  to  free  Italy 
but  to  free  my  wife  as  well?" 

I  laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder.  "My  son,  I  answer 
for  her.  Leave  your  faith  in  her  in  my  hands  and  I 
will  keep  it  whole." 

He  stared  at  me  strangely.  "And  what  if  your  own 
fail  you?" 

"In  her?  Never.  I  call  every  saint  to  witness!" 

"And  yet^ — and  yet — ah,  this  is  a  blind/'  he 
shouted;  "you  know  all  and  perjure  yourself  to  spare 
me!" 

At  that,  my  son,  I  felt  a  knife  in  my  breast.  I  looked 
at  him  in  anguish  and  his  gaze  was  a  wall  of  metal. 
Mine  seemed  to  slip  away  from  it,  like  a  clawless  thing 
struggling  up  the  sheer  side  of  a  precipice. 

"You  know  all,"  he  repeated,  "and  you  dare  not  let 
me  hear  her !" 

"I  dare  not  betray  my  trust." 

He  waved  the  answer  aside. 

"Is  this  a  time  to  quibble  over  church  discipline?  If 
you  believed  in  her  you  would  save  her  at  any  cost!" 

I  said  to  myself,  "Eternity  can  hold  nothing  worse 
than  this  for  me —  "  and  clutched  my  resolve  again 
like  a  cross  to  my  bosom. 

Just  then  there  was  a  hand  on  the  door  and  we 
heard  Donna  Marianna. 

"Faustina  has  sent  to  know  if  the  signor  parocco  is 
here."  [  226  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"He  is  here.  Bid  her  come  down  to  the  chapel." 
Roberto  spoke  quietly,  and  closed  the  door  on  her  so 
that  she  should  not  see  his  face.  We  heard  her  patter 
away  across  the  brick  floor  of  the  salone. 

Roberto  turned  to  me.  "Egidio!"  he  said;  and  all  at 
once  I  was  no  more  than  a  straw  on  the  torrent  of 
his  will. 

The  chapel  adjoined  the  room  in  which  we  sat.  He 
opened  the  door,  and  in  the  twilight  I  saw  the  light 
glimmering  before  the  Virgin's  shrine  and  the  old 
carved  confessional  standing  like  a  cowled  watcher 
in  its  corner.  But  I  saw  it  all  in  a  dream;  for  nothing 
in  heaven  or  earth  was  real  to  me  but  the  iron  grip 
on  my  shoulder. 

"Quick!"  he  said  and  drove  me  forward.  I  heard  him 
shoot  back  the  bolt  of  the  outer  door  and  a  moment 
later  I  stood  alone  in  the  garden.  The  sun  had  set  and 
the  cold  spring  dusk  was  falling.  Lights  shone  here 
and  there  in  the  long  front  of  the  villa;  the  statues 
glimmered  gray  among  the  thickets.  Through  the  win 
dow-pane  of  the  chapel  I  caught  the  faint  red  gleam 
of  the  Virgin's  lamp;  but  I  turned  my  back  on  it  and 
walked  away. 

All  night  I  lay  like  a  heretic  on  the  fire.  Before 
dawn  there  came  a  call  from  the  villa.  The  Count  had 
received  a  second  summons  from  Milan  and  was  to  set 

[227  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

out  in  an  hour.  I  hurried  down  the  cold  dewy  path  to 
the  lake.  All  was  new  and  hushed  and  strange  as  on 
the  day  of  resurrection ;  and  in  the  dark  twilight  of  the 
garden  alleys  the  statues  stared  at  me  like  the  shrouded 
dead. 

In  the  salone,  where  the  old  Count's  portrait  hung, 
I  found  the  family  assembled.  Andrea  and  Gemma  sat 
together,  a  little  pinched,  I  thought,  but  decent  and 
self-contained,  like  mourners  who  expect  to  inherit. 
Donna  Marianna  drooped  near  them,  with  something 
black  over  her  head  and  her  face  dim  with  weeping. 
Roberto  received  me  calmly  and  then  turned  to  his 
sister. 

"Go  fetch  my  wife,"  he  said. 

While  she  was  gone  there  was  silence.  We  could 
hear  the  cold  drip  of  the  garden-fountain  and  the  pat 
ter  of  rats  in  the  wall.  Andrea  and  his  wife  stared  out 
of  window  and  Roberto  sat  in  his  father's  carved  seat 
at  the  head  of  the  long  table.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  Faustina  entered. 

When  I  saw  her  I  stopped  breathing.  She  seemed 
no  more  than  the  shell  of  herself,  a  hollow  thing  that 
grief  has  voided.  Her  eyes  returned  our  images  like 
polished  agate,  but  conveyed  to  her  no  sense  of  our 
presence.  Marianna  led  her  to  a  seat,  and  she  crossed 
her  hands  and  nailed  her  dull  gaze  on  Roberto.  I  looked 
from  one  to  another,  and  in  that  spectral  light  it  seemed 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

to  me  that  we  were  all  souls  come  to  judgment  and 
naked  to  each  other  as  to  God.  As  to  my  own  wrong 
doing,  it  weighed  on  me  no  more  than  dust.  The  only 
feeling  I  had  room  for  was  fear — a  fear  that  seemed 
to  fill  my  throat  and  lungs  and  bubble  coldly  over  my 
drowning  head. 

Suddenly  Roberto  began  to  speak.  His  voice  was 
clear  and  steady,  and  I  clutched  at  his  words  to  drag 
myself  above  the  surface  of  my  terror.  He  touched  on 
the  charge  that  had  been  made  against  his  wife — he 
did  not  say  by  whom  —  the  foul  rumor  that  had  made 
itself  heard  on  the  eve  of  their  first  parting.  Duty,  he 
said,  had  sent  him  a  double  summons;  to  fight  for  his 
country  and  for  his  wife.  He  must  clear  his  wife's  name 
before  he  was  worthy  to  draw  sword  for  Italy.  There 
was  no  time  to  tame  the  slander  before  throttling  it; 
he  had  to  take  the  shortest  way  to  its  throat.  At  this 
point  he  looked  at  me  and  my  soul  shook.  Then  he 
turned  to  Andrea  and  Gemma. 

"When  you  came  to  me  with  this  rumor,"  he  said 
quietly,  "you  agreed  to  consider  the  family  honor 
satisfied  if  I  could  induce  Don  Egidio  to  let  me  take 
his  place  and  overhear  my  wife's  confession,  and  if  that 
confession  convinced  me  of  her  innocence.  Was  this  the 
understanding  ?  " 

Andrea  muttered  something  and  Gemma  tapped  a 
sullen  foot. 

[  229  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"After  you  had  left,"  Roberto  continued,  "I  laid 
the  case  before  Don  Egidio  and  th^ew  myself  on  his 
mercy."  He  looked  at  me  fixedly.  "So  strong  was  his 
faith  in  my  wife's  innocence  that  for  her  sake  he 
agreed  to  violate  the  sanctity  of  the  confessional.  I 
took  his  place." 

Marianna  sobbed  and  crossed  herself  and  a  strange 
look  flitted  over  Faustina's  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause;  then  Roberto,  rising, 
walked  across  the  room  to  his  wife  and  took  her  by  the 
hand. 

"Your  seat  is  beside  me,  Countess  Siviano,"  he  said, 
and  led  her  to  the  empty  chair  by  his  own. 

Gemma  started  to  her  feet,  but  her  husband  pulled 
her  down  again. 

"Jesus!  Mary!"  We  heard  Donna  Marianna  moan. 

Roberto  raised  his  wife's  hand  to  his  lips.  "You  for 
give  me,"  he  said,  "the  means  I  took  to  defend  you?" 
And  turning  to  Andrea  he  added  slowly:  "I  declare  my 
wife  innocent  and  my  honor  satisfied.  You  swear  to 
stand  by  my  decision?" 

What  Andrea  stammered  out,  what  hissing  serpents 
of  speech  Gemma's  clinched  teeth  bit  back,  I  never 
knew — for  my  eyes  were  on  Faustina,  and  her  face 
was  a  wonder  to  behold. 

She  had  let  herself  be  led  across  the  room  like  a 
blind  woman,  and  had  listened  without  change  of  fea- 
[  230  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

ture  to  her  husband's  first  words;  but  as  he  ceased  her 
frozen  gaze  broke  and  her  whole  body  seemed  to  melt 
against  his  breast.  He  put  his  arm  out,  but  she  slipped 
to  his  feet  and  Marianna  hastened  forward  to  raise  her 
up.  At  that  moment  we  heard  the  stroke  of  oars  across 
the  quiet  water  and  saw  the  Count's  boat  touch  the 
landing-steps.  Four  strong  oarsmen  from  Monte  Isola 
were  to  row  him  down  to  Iseo,  to  take  horse  for  Milan, 
and  his  servant,  knapsack  on  shoulder,  knocked  warn- 
ingly  at  the  terrace  window. 

"No  time  to  lose,  excellency!"  he  cried. 

Roberto  turned  and  gripped  my  hand.  "Pray  for 
me,"  he  said  low;  and  with  a  brief  gesture  to  the 
others  ran  down  the  terrace  to  the  boat. 

Marianna  was  bathing  Faustina  with  happy  tears. 

"Look  up,  dear!  Think  how  soon  he  will  come  back] 
And  there  is  the  sunrise — see!" 

Andrea  and  Gemma  had  slunk  away  like  ghosts  at 
cock-crow,  and  a  red  dawn  stood  over  Milan. 

If  that  sun  rose  red  it  set  scarlet.  It  was  the  first  of 
the  Five  Days  in  Milan — the  Five  Glorious  Days,  as 
they  are  called.  Roberto  reached  the  city  just  before 
the  gates  closed.  So  much  we  knew — little  more.  We 
heard  of  him  in  the  Broletto  (whence  he  must  have 
escaped  when  the  Austrians  blew  in  the  door)  and  in 
the  Casa  Vidiserti,  with  Casati,  Cattaneo  and  the  rest; 
[  231  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

but  after  the  barricading  began  we  could  trace  him 
only  as  having  been  seen  here  and  there  in  the  thick 
of  the  fighting,  or  tending  the  wounded  under  Ber- 
tani's  orders.  His  place,  one  would  have  said,  was  in 
the  council-chamber,  with  the  soberer  heads;  but  that 
was  an  hour  when  every  man  gave  his  blood  where  it 
was  most  needed,  and  Cernuschi,  Dandolo,  Anfossi, 
della  Porta  fought  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  students, 
artisans  and  peasants.  Certain  it  is  that  he  was  seen  on 
the  fifth  day;  for  among  the  volunteers  who  swarmed 
after  Manara  in  his  assault  on  the  Porta  Tosa  was  a 
servant  of  palazzo  Siviano;  and  this  fellow  swore  he 
had  seen  his  master  charge  with  Manara  in  the  last 
assault — had  watched  him,  sword  in  hand,  press  close 
to  the  gates,  and  then,  as  they  swung  open  before 
the  victorious  dash  of  our  men,  had  seen  him  drop 
and  disappear  in  the  inrushing  tide  of  peasants  that 
almost  swept  the  little  company  off  its  feet.  After 
that  we  heard  nothing.  There  was  savage  work  in 
Milan  in  those  days,  and  more  than  one  well-known 
figure  lay  lost  among  the  heaps  of  dead  hacked  and 
disfeatured  by  Croat  blades. 

At  the  villa  we  waited  breathless.  News  came  to 
us  hour  by  hour:  the  very  wind  seemed  to  carry  it, 
and  it  was  swept  to  us  on  the  incessant  rush  of  the 
rain.  On  the  twenty-third  Radetsky  had  fled  from 
Milan,  to  face  Venice  rising  in  his  path.  On  the 
[  232  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

twenty-fourth  the  first  Piedmontese  had  crossed  the 
Ticino,  and  Charles  Albert  himself  was  in  Pavia  on 
the  twenty-ninth.  The  bells  of  Milan  had  carried  the 
word  from  Turin  to  Naples,  from  Genoa  to  Ancona, 
and  the  whole  country  was  pouring  like  a  flood-tide 
into  Lombardy.  Heroes  sprang  up  from  the  bloody 
soil  as  thick  as  wheat  after  rain,  and  every  day  carried 
some  new  name  to  us;  but  never  the  one  for  which 
we  prayed  and  waited.  Weeks  passed.  We  heard  of 
Pastrengo,  Goito,  Rivoli;  of  Radetsky  hemmed  into 
the  Quadrilateral,  and  our  troops  closing  in  on  him 
from  Rome,  Tuscany  and  Venetia.  Months  passed — and 
we  heard  of  Custozza.  We  saw  Charles  Albert's  broken 
forces  flung  back  from  the  Mincio  to  the  Oglio,  from 
the  Oglio  to  the  Adda.  We  followed  the  dreadful  re 
treat  from  Milan,  and  saw  our  rescuers  dispersed  like 
dust  before  the  wind.  But  all  the  while  no  word  came 
to  us  of  Roberto. 

These  were  dark  days  in  Lombardy;  and  nowhere 
darker  than  in  the  old  villa  on  Iseo.  In  September 
Donna  Marianna  and  the  young  Countess  put  on  black, 
and  Count  Andrea  and  his  wife  followed  their  example. 
In  October  the  Countess  gave  birth  to  a  daughter. 
Count  Andrea  then  took  possession  of  the  palazzo 
Siviano,  and  the  two  women  remained  at  the  villa.  I 
have  no  heart  to  tell  you  of  the  days  that  followed. 
Donna  Marianna  wept  and  prayed  incessantly,  and  it 
[  233  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

was  long  before  the  baby  could  snatch  a  smile  from 
her.  As  for  the  Countess  Faustina,  she  went  among 
us  like  one  of  the  statues  in  the  garden.  The  child 
had  a  wet-nurse  from  the  village,  and  it  was  small 
wonder  there  was  no  milk  for  it  in  that  marble  breast. 
I  spent  much  of  my  time  at  the  villa,  comforting  Donna 
Marianna  as  best  I  could;  but  sometimes,  in  the  long 
winter  evenings,  when  we  three  sat  in  the  dimly-lit 
salone,  with  the  old  Count's  portrait  overhead,  and  I 
looked  up  and  saw  the  Countess  Faustina  in  the  tall 
carved  seat  beside  her  husband's  empty  chair,  my  spine 
grew  chill  and  I  felt  a  cold  wind  in  my  hair. 

The  end  of  it  was  that  in  the  spring  I  went  to  see 
my  bishop  and  laid  my  sin  before  him.  He  was  a 
saintly  and  merciful  old  man,  and  gave  me  a  patient 
hearing. 

"You  believed  the  lady  innocent?"  he  asked  when 
I  had  ended. 

"Monsignore,  on  my  soul!" 

"You  thought  to  avert  a  great  calamity  from  the 
house  to  which  you  owed  more  than  your  life?" 

"It  was  my  only  thought." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Go  home,  my  son.  You  shall  learn  my  decision." 

Three  months  later  I  was  ordered  to  resign  my 
living  and  go  to  America,  where  a  priest  was  needed 
for  the  Italian  mission  church  in  New  York.  I  packed 
[  234  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

my  possessions  and  set  sail  from  Genoa.  I  knew  no 
more  of  America  than  any  peasant  up  in  the  hills.  I 
fully  expected  to  be  speared  by  naked  savages  on 
landing;  and  for  the  first  few  months  after  my  arrival 
I  wished  at  least  once  a  day  that  such  a  blessed  fate 
had  befallen  me.  But  it  is  no  part  of  my  story  to  tell 
you  what  I  suffered  in  those  early  days.  The  Church 
had  dealt  with  me  mercifully,  as  is  her  wont,  and  her 
punishment  fell  far  below  my  deserts.  .  . 

I  had  been  some  four  years  in  New  York,  and  no 
longer  thought  of  looking  back  from  the  plough,  when 
one  day  word  was  brought  me  that  an  Italian  professor 
lay  ill  and  had  asked  for  a  priest.  There  were  many 
Italian  refugees  in  New  York  at  that  time,  and  the 
greater  number,  being  well-educated  men,  earned  a 
living  by  teaching  their  language,  which  was  then  in 
cluded  among  the  accomplishments  of  fashionable  New 
York.  The  messenger  led  me  to  a  poor  boarding-house 
and  up  to  a  small  bare  room  on  the  top  floor.  On  the 
visiting-card  nailed  to  the  door  I  read  the  name  "De 
Roberti,  Professor  of  Italian."  Inside,  a  gray-haired 
haggard  man  tossed  on  the  narrow  bed.  He  turned 
a  glazed  eye  on  me  as  I  entered,  and  I  recognized 
Roberto  Siviano. 

I   steadied   myself  against  the  door-post  and  stood 
staring  at  him  without  a  word. 
[  235  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  doctor  who  was 
bending  over  the  bed.  I  stammered  that  the  sick  man 
was  an  old  friend. 

"He  wouldn't  know  his  oldest  friend  just  now," 
said  the  doctor.  "The  fever's  on  him;  but  it  will  go 
down  toward  sunset." 

I  sat  down  at  the  head  of  the  bed  and  took  Roberto's 
hand  in  mine. 

"Is  he  going  to  die?"  I  asked. 

"I  don't  believe  so;  but  he  wants  nursing." 

"I  will  nurse  him." 

The  doctor  nodded  and  went  out.  I  sat  in  the  little 
room,  with  Roberto's  burning  hand  in  mine.  Gradually 
his  skin  cooled,  the  fingers  grew  quiet,  and  the  flush 
faded  from  his  sallow  cheek-bones.  Toward  dusk  he 
looked  up  at  me  and  smiled. 

"Egidio,"  he  said  quietly. 

I  administered  the  sacrament,  which  he  received 
with  the  most  fervent  devotion;  then  he  fell  into  a 
deep  sleep. 

During  the  weeks  that  followed  I  had  no  time  to 
ask  myself  the  meaning  of  it  all.  My  one  business  was 
to  keep  him  alive  if  I  could.  I  fought  the  fever  day  and 
night,  and  at  length  it  yielded.  For  the  most  part  he 
raved  or  lay  unconscious;  but  now  and  then  he  knew 
me  for  a  moment,  and  whispered  "Egidio"  with  a  look 
of  peace. 

[236] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

I  had  stolen  many  hours  from  my  duties  to  nurse 
him;  and  as  soon  as  the  danger  was  past  I  had  to  go 
back  to  my  parish  work.  Then  it  was  that  I  began  to 
ask  myself  what  had  brought  him  to  America;  but  I 
dared  not  face  the  answer. 

On  the  fourth  day  I  snatched  a  moment  from  my 
work  and  climbed  to  his  room.  I  found  him  sitting 
propped  against  his  pillows,  weak  as  a  child  but  clear- 
eyed  and  quiet.  I  ran  forward,  but  his  look  stopped  me. 

"Signor  parocco"  he  said,  "the  doctor  tells  me  that 
I  owe  my  life  to  your  nursing,  and  I  have  to  thank 
you  for  the  kindness  you  have  shown  to  a  friendless 
stranger." 

"A  stranger?"  I  gasped. 

He  looked  at  me  steadily.  "I  am  not  aware  that  we 
have  met  before,"  he  said. 

For  a  moment  I  thought  the  fever  was  on  him;  but 
a  second  glance  convinced  me  that  he  was  master  of 
himself. 

" Roberto!"  I  cried,  trembling. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me,"  he  said  civilly. 
"But  my  name  is  Roberti,  not  Roberto." 

The  floor  swam  under  me  and  I  had  to  lean  against 
the  wall. 

"You  are  not  Count  Roberto  Siviano  of  Milan?" 

"I  am  Tommaso  de  Roberti,  professor  of  Italian, 
from  Modena." 

[237  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"And  you  have  never  seen  me  before?" 

"Never  that  I  know  of." 

"Were  you  never  at  Siviano,  on  the  lake  of  Iseo?" 
I  faltered. 

He  said  calmly:  "I  am  unacquainted  with  that  part 
of  Italy." 

My  heart  grew  cold  and  I  was  silent. 

"You  mistook  me  for  a  friend,  I  suppose?"  he  added. 

"Yes,"  I  cried,  "I  mistook  you  for  a  friend;"  and 
with  that  I  fell  on  my  knees  by  his  bed  and  cried  like 
a  child. 

Suddenly  I  felt  a  touch  on  my  shoulder.  "Egidio," 
said  he  in  a  broken  voice,  "look  up." 

I  raised  my  eyes,  and  there  was  his  old  smile  above 
me,  and  we  clung  to  each  other  without  a  word.  Pres 
ently,  however,  he  drew  back,  and  put  me  quietly 
aside. 

"Sit  over  there,  Egidio.  My  bones  are  like  water  and 
I  am  not  good  for  much  talking  yet." 

"Let  us  wait,  Roberto.  Sleep  now — we  can  talk  to 
morrow." 

"No.  What  I  have  to  say  must  be  said  at  once."  He 
examined  me  thoughtfully.  "You  have  a  parish  here 
in  New  York?" 

I  assented. 

"And  my  work  keeps  me  here.  I  have  pupils.  It  is 
too  late  to  make  a  change." 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

"A  change?" 

He  continued  to  look  at  me  calmly.  "It  would  be 
difficult  for  me/'  he  explained,  "to  find  employment 
in  a  new  place." 

"But  why  should  you  leave  here?" 

"I  shall  have  to/'  he  returned  deliberately,  "if  you 
persist  in  recognizing  in  me  your  former  friend  Count 
Siviano." 

"Roberto!" 

He  lifted  his  hand.  "Egidio/'  he  said,  "I  am  alone 
here,  and  without  friends.  The  companionship,  the 
sympathy  of  my  parish  priest  would  be  a  consolation 
in  this  strange  city;  but  it  must  not  be  the  compan 
ionship  of  the  parocco  of  Siviano.  You  understand?" 

"Roberto,"  I  cried,  "it  is  too  dreadful  to  under 
stand!" 

"Be  a  man,  Egidio,"  said  he  with  a  touch  of  impa 
tience.  "The  choice  lies  with  you,  and  you  must  make 
it  now.  If  you  are  willing  to  ask  no  questions,  to  name 
no  names,  to  make  no  allusions  to  the  past,  let  us  live 
as  friends  together,  in  God's  name!  If  not,  as  soon  as 
my  legs  can  carry  me  I  must  be  off  again.  The  world 
is  wide,  luckily — but  why  should  we  be  parted?" 

I  was  on  my  knees  at  his  side  in  an  instant.  "We 
must  never  be  parted!"  I  cried.  "Do  as  you  will  with 
me.  Give  me  your  orders  and  I  obey — have  I  not 
always  obeyed  you?" 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

I  felt  his  hand  close  sharply  on  mine.  "Egidio!"  he 
admonished  me. 

"No — no — I  shall  remember.  I  shall  say  nothing — " 
"Think  nothing?" 

"Think  nothing/'  I  said  with  a  last  effort. 
"God  bless  you!"  he  answered. 

My  son,  for  eight  years  I  kept  my  word  to  him. 
We  met  daily  almost,  we  ate  and  walked  and  talked 
together,  we  lived  like  David  and  Jonathan  —  but 
without  so  much  as  a  glance  at  the  past.  How  he  had 
escaped  from  Milan — how  he  had  reached  New  York 
—  I  never  knew.  We  talked  often  of  Italy's  libera 
tion — as  what  Italians  would  not?  —  but  never  touched 
on  his  share  in  the  work.  Once  only  a  word  slipped 
from  him;  and  that  was  when  one  day  he  asked  me 
how  it  was  that  I  had  been  sent  to  America.  The 
blood  rushed  to  my  face,  and  before  I  could  answer 
he  had  raised  a  silencing  hand. 

"I  see,"  he  said;  "it  was  your  penance  too." 
During  the  first  years  he  had  plenty  of  work  to  do, 
but  he  lived  so  frugally  that  I  guessed  he  had  some 
secret  use  for  his  earnings.  It  was  easy  to  conjecture 
what  it  was.  All  over  the  world  Italian  exiles  were 
toiling  and  saving  to  further  the  great  cause.  He  had 
political  friends  in  New  York,  and  sometimes  he  went 
to  other  cities  to  attend  meetings  and  make  addresses. 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

His  zeal  never  slackened;  and  but  for  me  he  would 
often  have  gone  hungry  that  some  shivering  patriot 
might  dine.  I  was  with  him  heart  and  soul,  but  I  had 
the  parish  on  my  shoulders,  and  perhaps  my  long  ex 
perience  of  men  had  made  me  a  little  less  credulous 
than  Christian  charity  requires;  for  I  could  have  sworn 
that  some  of  the  heroes  who  hung  on  him  had  never 
had  a  whiff  of  Austrian  blood,  and  would  have  fed 
out  of  the  same  trough  with  the  white-coats  if  there 
had  been  polenta  enough  to  go  round.  Happily  my 
friend  had  no  such  doubts.  He  believed  in  the  patriots 
as  devoutly  as  in  the  cause;  and  if  some  of  his  hard- 
earned  dollars  travelled  no  farther  than  the  nearest 
wine-cellar  or  cigar-shop,  he  never  suspected  the 
course  they  took. 

His  health  was  never  the  same  after  the  fever;  and 
by  and  by  he  began  to  lose  his  pupils,  and  the  patriots 
cooled  off  as  his  pockets  fell  in.  Toward  the  end  I  took 
him  to  live  in  my  shabby  attic.  He  had  grown  weak 
and  had  a  troublesome  cough,  and  he  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  days  indoors.  Cruel  days  they  must  have 
been  to  him,  but  he  made  no  sign,  and  always  wel 
comed  me  with  a  cheerful  word.  When  his  pupils 
dropped  off,  and  his  health  made  it  difficult  for  him  to 
pick  up  work  outside,  he  set  up  a  letter-writer's  sign, 
and  used  to  earn  a  few  pennies  by  serving  as  amanu 
ensis  to  my  poor  parishioners;  but  it  went  against  him 
[241  ] 


THE     CONFESSIONAL 

to  take  their  money,  and  half  the  time  he  did  the 
work  for  nothing.  I  knew  it  was  hard  for  him  to  live 
on  charity,  as  he  called  it,  and  I  used  to  find  what  jobs 
I  could  for  him  among  my  friends  the  negozianti,  who 
would  send  him  letters  to  copy,  accounts  to  make  up 
and  what  not;  but  we  were  all  poor  together,  and  the 
master  had  licked  the  platter  before  the  dog  got  it. 

So  lived  that  just  man,  my  son;  and  so,  after  eight 
years  of  exile,  he  died  one  day  in  my  arms.  God  had 
let  him  live  long  enough  to  see  Solferino  and  Villa- 
franca;  and  was  perhaps  never  more  merciful  than  in 
sparing  him  Monte  Rotondo  and  Mentana.  But  these 
are  things  of  which  it  does  not  become  me  to  speak. 
The  new  Italy  does  not  wear  the  face  of  our  visions; 
but  it  is  written  that  God  shall  know  His  own,  and  it 
cannot  be  that  He  shall  misread  the  hearts  of  those 
who  dreamed  of  fashioning  her  in  His  image. 

As  for  my  friend,  he  is  at  peace,  I  doubt  not;  and 
his  just  life  and  holy  death  intercede  for  me,  who 
sinned  for  his  sake  alone. 


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